


Forged in War

by RavenclawGenius



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-15 15:27:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 42,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3452252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RavenclawGenius/pseuds/RavenclawGenius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lexa can be patient, for Clarke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I about died when I finally caught up to the most recent episode. I just recently started watching The 100, and the Clarke/Lexa interactions are always so intense and heartfelt that it is actually difficult not to ship them. And then they made it canon! Or semi-canon. Or something. (This never happens to me; my ships never become canon. Ever.) Anyway, that Clexa kiss had my insides so fluttery that I just had to do something with it.
> 
> It was my goal to keep Lexa in character, but she's a stoic little thing, so it's difficult for me. If you think she needs improvement, please let me know; I'll try to integrate any advice received into my mind frame of her for future chapters. Thanks!

It is not so much that Clarke is mysterious, for, to Lexa, she is not; to Lexa, Clarke is an amalgamation of characteristics that she has seen before – but never presented in one form. Clarke is not a mystery so much as a puzzle made of pieces that do not quite merge in line. For Lexa, it is the contradiction of Clarke that first captures her interest.

For Clarke is strong, and kind, but she is also pliable; she is willing to do what must be done, but she is smart about doing so only when necessary. She is willing to lead, though she is still learning what that means. Clarke is willing to sacrifice all for the safety of her people, and for peace. Still, Clarke is determined to hold on to the scraps of her humanity, even in the darkest of times, and even when Lexa knows that it can lead only to Clarke's own suffering.

Lexa does not understand why.

Still, Lexa does what she can for her. She offers advice of things that she herself has learned throughout her rule that have saved her the agony that she now watches Clarke suffer through.

It is not enough.

It is not enough, because Clarke hides her anguish from all – Lexa's people; her _own_ people – but Lexa sees. Lexa peers through the jaded cracks of silver in Clarke's blue eyes of steel, and she sees the vulnerability there; she sees Clarke's pain, and, as Commander, there is only so much that Lexa has the power to do in this regard.

Lexa feels angry at Clarke's people – for Clarke will do (and has already _done_ ) everything for them, but the Sky People have no desire to see what her actions have wrought. They are content to live on and crucify Clarke for her decisions, believing her a monster, but they make no attempt to see what those decisions have cost her.

They refuse to look, and therefore do not see.

Lexa cannot help but to look.

And Lexa looks too hard, she realizes, because when she summons Clarke to her tent, it is not only to tell her that Octavia is safe from her people. It is because Lexa wishes to see her, and Lexa feels… guilty; guilty for adding to Clarke's already heavy burdens. She feels guilt for having threatened the life of Clarke's friend.

She maintains that far too many people are aware of their foreknowledge of the Mountain Men's missile, but Clarke's fierce loyalty to both members of the Blake clan mollifies her slightly. It is not that Lexa trusts them, because Lexa interacts with few of the Sky People, disregarding Clarke and Kane. Kane is too soft for Lexa's liking, though his wish for peace is comforting in many ways; he is strong-willed, but weak-minded, and such combinations can be dangerous.

Lexa's trust lies solely in Clarke.

Lexa trusts that Clarke only grants such faith to those who have proven themselves worthy of it.

So Lexa tells Clarke of her trust, and she is flattered by Clarke's insistence that she knows how difficult it is for Lexa to bestow trust upon another. For it is, indeed, difficult – but, because it is Clarke, it feels simpler for Lexa.

"You think our ways are harsh," Lexa says softly, "but it's how we survive."

"Maybe life should be about more than _just_ surviving," Clarke says with quiet conviction. But then Clarke drops her head down and slightly to the right, murmuring, "Don't we deserve better than that?"

It is as though Clarke is afraid to ask. It is as though Clarke fears that, no, they do not deserve better. Not anymore. And Lexa thinks that, though she has known only war and strife and suffering throughout most of her life in this body, they _must_ deserve better.

It is a foreign thought, and one that has not previously occurred to her, but she and Clarke are not so different. Lexa believes, with all of her spirit, that Clarke deserves more than a life of survival, and if they are the same in so many ways, then mustn't Lexa deserve more, too?

"Maybe we do," Lexa returns, eyes honed fiercely on the profile of Clarke's bowed face.

Lexa feels her hands grow cold, and the tremor in them is an infuriating indication of her deepest weakness, but Lexa does not cower in the face of fear. She raises that trembling hand to cradle the base of Clarke's neck with her fingers, thumb hooked gently beneath her ear, and without a moment to hesitate, Lexa kisses her.

Lexa kisses Clarke, because Costia was so very long ago, and Lexa loved her dearly, but it is not the same. For Lexa's heart was felled for Costia by charm and reckless bravery and an easy laugh that had encouraged Lexa to echo it, but Lexa could not be fooled by such things again. Costia had been Lexa's relief in a dark, changing world, but Clarke is… not.

Clarke is Lexa's reflection. She is the mirror image of Lexa, except that she is not. She is what Lexa might have been, had she chosen different paths, and could her people have allowed it.

Clarke is better.

Lexa looks into Clarke's eyes and sees herself, but she sees something, too, that is only Clarke's to possess. She sees true strength – the kind of strength that Lexa has always had to fight to keep control of, but which Clarke commands with ease.

And Lexa feels that strength in Clarke's kiss.

It is soft, and tentative, and slow, and Lexa's breath shakes with each pull against Clarke's generously pliant mouth. Tongues do not play, but when Clarke's hand shifts to grasp lightly against the bend of Lexa's arm, Lexa feels, for a moment, that she is free; that Clarke can fall from the heavens just as swiftly as she can lift Lexa to them.

When Clarke sucks in a sharp breath and tips her head slightly away, Lexa's hand falls from her face like it has been filled with the metals of her people, because Lexa knows what she has done.

There is something intangible that she and Clarke share, and Lexa now knows that Clarke can feel it, too – but she is not surprised when Clarke tells her that she is not ready.

"Not yet," Clarke whispers, eyes soft, and apologetic, but promising, still.

It hurts, in Lexa's heart, but she knows what Clarke is not saying. She remembers the startled, horrified look in Clarke's eye when Lexa had demanded the life of the boy Clarke loved. Lexa remembers how Clarke had moved around for days as though her spirit had abandoned her body altogether. Still a competent leader, yes – but hardly human.

That had been difficult for Lexa to bear, though she showed no indication. Clarke's humanity and mercy and compassion are all that makes her different from Lexa. Without those things, Clarke is not Clarke. She is a shell.

It took much time before Lexa could again find _Clarke_ inside of that shell. She had searched for her, beneath the darkness in those shaded blue eyes, and Lexa had been patient. She had waited for Clarke to find her peace – or something like it, for Lexa knows that true peace is gifted only in death, and often not even then.

Lexa tries to keep her features understanding, but it is hard when she wishes only that Clarke will not see the sting of such rejection in her eyes. She does not wish for Clarke to know, because it is clear to Lexa that Clarke feels remorseful enough without it, and her remorse is unnecessary. For Lexa does understand. She understands that Clarke has suffered much, and Lexa can be patient once more.

She has found Clarke again, through the haze of her despair and the consequences of her hard decisions, and if Clarke requires more time, Lexa will allow her that. Much has changed for Clarke in recent months, and change requires adaption. Clarke is still adapting, and Lexa knows that she must adapt on her own.

For Lexa has found Clarke once more, but Clarke is still searching for herself. Lexa not only understands Clarke's need to be alone, she encourages it. It does not make her heart hurt less, but she has no desire to be with Clarke if Clarke is unsure that the person she is can be with the person _Lexa_ is.

But Lexa is given no chance to explain this to Clarke, for her people are begging her attention outside of her tent and this can mean nothing but war.

She spares another glance toward the Sky Princess, but they are both commanders in their own right, and Clarke's expression has turned determined and fearless just as rapidly as Lexa's own.

Lexa nods her approval before they both take off outside, and when they see the flame light the air above, Clarke breathes, relieved, "Bellamy did it."

Lexa stares, too, at the sky. As Clarke's words reach her ears, she says with quiet confidence, "You were right to have faith in him."

When she turns to face Clarke, Clarke has faced her, also. Lexa does not say much in words, but in the look that they share, Lexa offers her heart to this blonde princess of the sky.

" _As I was right to have faith in you,"_ her eyes whisper to Clarke's.

When she hears her people's eager cries for vengeance, she looks to Clarke and cannot help a small smile, for now they are finished standing idly by while their people are harvested for blood and marrow. Now, the alliance that she and Clarke had fought against their people to form will be put to use for this joint cause.

"Now, we fight," Lexa says fiercely.

Clarke looks at her as though there is much she wishes to say, but Clarke knows better, so she offers only a slow, resolute nod.

Still, Lexa wishes that she could know. She wishes that she could pry between Clarke's mind and hear the words she desperately desires to speak. But when Clarke shifts her gaze to Lexa's people and steels her eyes once more, Lexa realizes that she could probably have chosen a better time for this.

But now is no time for distractions, and Clarke will have to wait until their war has been won.

Lexa hopes only that they both survive it.


	2. Chapter 2

It swiftly becomes clear to Lexa that despite the missiles her people have so long feared, the Mountain Men are poorly numbered; there are a hundred soldiers, perhaps, who are trained for battle – and though their weapons are lethal and precise, Lexa and Clarke's people overcome them with relative ease. The others – the people of the mountain who cannot fight and tremble in fear of the sheer number of warriors overtaking their home, but still lack the courage to take arms and protect it – are, for now, captives within their own walls. Their mountain abode is sickening to Lexa, and she feels that she can smell the stench of stolen blood outside of and within every inch of this place, but she cannot deny that the Mountain Men have rather effectively created their own prisons, and for that, Lexa is thankful. If nothing else, she knows that escape is not an option, for these people simply have no choice but to remain; they cannot rise to the surface, and so it is safest not to try to move their prisoners.

There are perhaps two hundred or so citizens left inside those haunted, concrete walls, and Lexa's fingers itch along the hilt of her now sheathed sword, stroking anxiously with hardly restrained malice whenever she thinks on it.

Lexa has considered what to do with them (and if Lexa has her way, they will be mutilated and prodded and sliced and slaughtered, as her people have been for generations before her), but she will make no singular decision. There has been little discussion of what this alliance between Earth and Sky will bring following this battle, but if there is any hope that it may weather on, Lexa must, at least, allow them their say.

The reapers had been the most difficult to eliminate, for the reapers know where the Red comes from, if nothing else, and they had been ruthless in their fight to protect its source. The Sky People had replicated the frequency of the skin-crawling noise devise, but they had only had the time and materials to create so many more. They had utilized the few that they had and kept the cowered reapers alive, though Lexa had ordered her warriors to both render them unconscious and bound them, too, stationing a small unit to guard them and keep them tame until they could be resurrected. The others had been killed, for they had had no other choice, but despite their clouded minds and traitorous bodies, the reapers had died the deaths of warriors. Lexa draws some measure of comfort in that, for they may have presented themselves to her as enemies today, but it had not been by any choice of their own, and they are still her people.

There are some who did not survive, yes, and many of her warriors are injured, but blood must have blood, and they had both drawn the crimson from the hateful veins of the Mountain Men and shed their own in kind. Lexa spares a thought to wonder how much of the blood from the Mountain Men is actually the recycled blood of her own people, and it scalds her with a rage so hot that she, for a moment, has to stand tall and take a breath of crisp, foreign Mountain air to soothe her aching lungs and bitter heart.

Then she moves.

Lexa moves through the battlefield with purpose, calling attention to those of the wounded who can be saved, and for those who cannot, Lexa whispers in the words of her people that they have served well, and she ends their fight with her dagger to their chests. It is an act of mercy, though Lexa feels the eyes of Clarke's mother following in her path and casting judgment upon her each time.

Lexa cares little. She will not condemn her people, or _Clarke's_ people, to the indignity of useless treatments and hours, or perhaps days of pain that cannot be relieved and will end only in the same death that she grants them now. They will not be mended. It serves no one to bring them home, now, for their footmen are weary and their horses are weak.

Still, she says nothing, for Abby is a healer – more skilled than most of Lexa's own, if she is to be truthful, though her pride burns at the mere thought – and Lexa requires her cooperation, at least until her people have been seen to. Their number in healers are few, and they need the Sky Chancellor's aid.

Abby follows Lexa's trail and hurries to the sides of all those Lexa does not spare from peace.

But as Lexa scours the blood-stained fields of the mountain, her eyes are alert, and constantly in motion. Lexa cannot spare the luxury of searching for Clarke in this disaster, for her people are looking to her and acting upon her orders to secure the area and search for any remaining Mountain Soldiers who might think to regroup, reformulate an attack. Her people are tired and wrathful and giddy with the remaining bloodlust of battle, and cannot be trusted to make rational decisions without her command.

Still, Lexa's eyes scan as far as she can see for streaks of blonde glittering in the warmth of a sun too close to Lexa's skin at the height of this mountain – for so few of her own people can make claim to such light hair, and it is a rarity among the Skaikru, too. Lexa has noticed this; has noticed the uniqueness of Clarke, even among her own people. And Lexa uses it now to try for just a glimpse of her in the wake of this battle. She requires only a glimpse, to know that Clarke is well, and knows that the constricted feeling beneath her breast will not be eased until she does.

Lexa does not need to speak with her, and even if she could, she knows not what she would say – for Lexa can imagine that Clarke is not inclined to the same elation of victory that strikes the souls of her warriors. Lexa feels accomplished, and proud, and _right_ , for she has served her people well; she has lead them to battle, and they have won. They have fought and died and sacrificed for the spirits lost to this Mountain.

Lexa has protected her people.

There is satisfaction in that, and so Lexa decides that when she speaks to Clarke, these will be the words. These can be the only words she may offer to Clarke, for that is the only thing that may penetrate the guilt and pain and overwhelming recrimination that Lexa knows Clarke will seek.

There is only a small, irritatingly worrisome thought that Lexa cannot quell: Clarke has never wanted war. She strives, always, only for peace. Her mission on this mountain had not been for revenge; Clarke wanted only her people, returned to her safely and without harm.

Thus, Lexa reasons that the only place Clarke could stand to be is here, where Lexa is, healing those who have a chance and evaluating the losses of her own people, too, grieving for each one in turn with hardened features but a weighing heart.

Yet Lexa has not yet seen the streaks of blonde hair that her shifting, eager eyes seek to find.

It is not until the sun has long sunk beneath the hills of the mountain that Lexa hears word of Clarke, and vicious fury lights her soul when they are not the words for which she wishes.

Bellamy emerges from the underground structure with a haste and pride and determination that Lexa has long believed suits him, calling for Abby amongst the temporary graves of lost people.

"Clarke's hurt," Bellamy pants, winded from his search. "Abby, Clarke's _hurt_ ," he snarls impatiently when the Sky healer freezes, her palm gripped soundly against the arm of one of Lexa's warriors, prepared to have a laceration in his bicep sloppily sewn and bandaged in Abby's fervor to move to the next wounded fighter.

" _Go_ ," Lexa's injured warrior, Malloch, growls swiftly and heatedly, leaned against the trunk of a tree and brimming with hate at Abby's hesitation.

"No," Abby shakes her head. "No. Your life is as important as hers."

"My injuries are not fatal," Malloch condescends with a cold look in his eye. "I have survived worse, and I will survive this as well. And even if I could not, Skai Prisa is more important. _Go._ "

Through the blasting minefields of her anger within, Lexa hears this, and for a moment stands only in startled awe. Her weeks have been spent in council rooms and war tents, hovering over maps and forming attacks – but in her tents and council rooms, Lexa has not seen _this_.

Lexa has not seen how her people have grown to respect Clarke as a leader; as a leader they would _follow_. She has not seen how they have assigned her a title in their own language; how they have granted that title _worth_ amongst themselves.

_Skai Prisa._

Sky Princess.

Malloch is prioritizing Clarke's health over his own, and over the health of every wounded man on this field. To her people, Clarke is important. She is important to them as she is important to Lexa.

"Go," Lexa barks furiously, for now there is no excuse not to issue this command.

Both her people and Clarke's would be devastated and crippled by such a loss, and though Abby may be reluctant to determine the value of indidvual human forms, Lexa is not so generous. It had been her feelings for Clarke, and the perception of weakness to her people that had prevented her from ordering Abby to Clarke's side before, but that has changed with Malloch's words. Lexa has legitimate reason to fear the death of Clarke, not only for her own heart, but for the hearts of her people, too.

Lexa is being tugged and rocked and surfaced and drowned beneath the tides of her temper, and beneath waves of a fear that she cannot remember having felt in so long.

For this is Abby's daughter, and this should not take so much persuasion.

"Clarke is strong," Abby shakes her head, denial leaking from the stubborn set of her jaw and the rigid line of her shoulders. "And she has medical training. She'll be fine. Let me finish."

Lexa hisses a menacing slew of Trigedasleng curses, but knows not what she can say to convince this healer, this _Chancellor,_ this insufficient _mother_ , to tend to her daughter's injuries.

"She is strong because you _made her be_ ," Bellamy whispers in quiet fury. "She is strong because she is _Clarke_. She is strong because she carries the lives of _every- single- one_ of our people on her back, and she does not complain, but instead she _leads them_ where you and your stupid council have _failed to_ ," he sizzles. "She is strong because she needs to be, but even Clarke isn't strong enough to survive two bullets to the gut without medical assistance. She is bleeding out. _Right_ now, Abby. And you can _save_ her," he insists, voice tight with the effort not to scream, and instead trying to penetrate Abby's denial of Clarke's severely injured state.

It is the description of Clarke that breaks Lexa.

It is the image of _Clarke's_ blood being spilt along the walls and floors of this dreaded and already blood-soaked mountain that does it; the reminder of the invaluable strength in Clarke that Lexa has never before seen in another and cannot – _refuses to_ – lose. And so the next words from her mouth are coupled with a sharpened, gorily cerise blade to Abby's throat that appears before Lexa has even made the decision to place it there.

"If she dies because of this," Lexa snarls cruelly, a rough edge to her voice that she is familiar with making only in fights to death that challenge her command, "I will spill your blood in her name," she vows vehemently, every thread of her veins pulsing with this promise and the truth that flowers beneath it. "You will go to her. _Now_ ," she demands coldly. "Or I will take you there myself. And if what we find is Clarke's spirit having moved to find a new carrier, I will plunge my dagger through your heart so that your body may lie with hers."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all of your kind comments, and the kudos. I hope to see more of them, so that you can tell me if Lexa's post-battle mind is where you think it ought to be. Let me know if you enjoyed it, too. : )


	3. Chapter 3

When Lexa is finally granted reprieve from her duties, the high moon has long past risen to light the earth with its pale yellow glow. Lexa wishes that it had not taken such valuable time, but her people required guidance, and she is their leader.

Lexa learned long ago that the life of Commander is not one of convenience.

For the moment, their dead remain scattered across the mountaintop. Lexa's words had ordered this so, despite the unsettled and disgruntled murmurings of her people in their wake, for Lexa knows that her warriors require rest, and time to heal. The dead are gone, and there is nothing to be done for them. They will celebrate the ascension of the lost spirits in the weeks to come, and carry their bodies back to the lands of her people, but, for now, Lexa must care for the living.

They are hungry.

Few Mountain Soldiers had been found during her scouts' search, but the ones that had been brought to her had been decimated by Lexa's own hand. For Lexa's heart _burns,_ and her blood rages and her mind seethes.

Their battle is finished, but Clarke –

Lexa's breath staggers belatedly from dry lungs across trembling lips, for here, in her tent once more, she can spare this; Lexa can spare herself a moment to remember the ghastly pale translucence of Clarke's already too-white skin, blood pouring from her abdomen over the boy, Jasper's, violently tremoring hands.

Their battle is finished, and for her people this is the best of all outcomes Lexa had dared to hope for, but Lexa's fury has no outlet for this. The two Mountain Soldiers she'd killed had hardly staved her venomous thirst for blood, and the man responsible for Clarke's critical condition had been dead long before Lexa had lead Abby to her.

Lexa does not care for her own healer's defense that Abby had been affected by battleshock. If Clarke does not survive this, and if her passing is linked in _any_ way to Abby's falter, Lexa will hold true to her word.

For Clarke's attacker – the President who the Mountain Men call Cage – is already dead, and if Clarke can never again blink apart those shadowed eyes, can never again look at Lexa with worlds and stars and entire universes shimmering beneath those fathomless lakes of blue, Lexa will raise the earth and strike the heavens to make certain someone suffers for it.

But Lexa has taken her moment of grief, and she cannot afford another, for now she is able to make her way to Clarke's side. Her people are at rest in their homes or before the warmth of their communal fire pits, relishing the heat on their cold faces and hands. Her generals are monitoring the progress of the last foot soldiers trekking down from the mountain, with few remaining Sky People and Tree People alike left behind to keep an eye on their prisoners. The reapers have been dosed with sedating herbs administered by warriors told which plants to search for by their healers, and they will sleep twelve hours more, at least. Those injured have either been relocated to Camp Jaha for more intensive treatment with more advanced tools, or they have been seen to by Lexa's healers and dismissed to their own beds, where they will sleep and be watched by their loved ones.

Lexa has stemmed her desire to be with Clarke in favor of caring for her people, for Lexa can do nothing for Clarke but gaze helplessly upon her listless form. Still, Lexa has longed to be nowhere else, and helpless though she may be, it is Clarke's bed that she will find herself beside tonight.

* * *

The Skaikru who first marked the arrival of the Sky People observe Lexa with curiosity when her horse approaches, but the guards stationed around the perimeter only nod and lift their weapons to their shoulders in promise not to fire, granting her access to the Skaikru's camp. Lexa ignores those unfamiliar with her and those she recognizes, too, for she has only one purpose here, and that purpose can be only Clarke.

Lexa has been told how to locate the Med Bay, and so she recalls that information now and makes her path there, ordering her guards to remain stationed at the entrance.

Silence reigns supreme amongst the small cots enclosed within the walls of their makeshift infirmary, but it does not escape Lexa's notice that the room is brimming with more bodies than strictly necessary. The cots are full, but only some serve the injured. The Sky People had lost twelve fighters by Lexa's count – only one of them part of the initial one hundred invaders, and not one which Lexa can identify by name. The wounded have been given the same sedative forced upon the reapers, but for a few, who Lexa suspects must be kept awake for monitoring. She spies six of her own warriors, who bow their heads respectfully and murmur tired titles of " _Heda_ " as she passes. Malloch is one of them, for he had refused to leave the Skai Prisa's side, once she had been returned to her camp.

It is his injury which caused Abby's hesitation to begin with, and it is he who feels the reflection of Lexa's guilt. Lexa knows this, and does not question it, for Malloch has taken stance as Clarke's guard independent of Lexa's command, and she is pleased that Clarke will be watched for by one of her own when she cannot perform this act herself.

The others present are far from restful.

They congregate around a bed that Lexa knows, once she is close enough to see, will cradle Clarke in its warmth and comfort. Her heart paces an erratic beat against her chest so violently that Lexa fears she might become ill, but she swallows the rising bile and pushes forward, weary, grief-stricken faces peaking with confusion.

Lexa sees, too, that several of Clarke's people stiffen and do not move from her path. She believes that if her blood did not race with such vicious worry and paralyzing fear, she might have felt amused – for none of them could stop her from reaching Clarke, and if they were to try, the only thing capable of gracing them with the gift of continued life would be the image Lexa can produce, even now, of the horrified look on Clarke's face were Lexa to strike them down.

"Heda," Octavia whispers, voice damaged and broken by tears and battle cries and shouts of concern.

The dark-haired sky girl is stationed in a chair made of some metal that Lexa decides was clearly not melded for comfort, but out of necessity. Her head is bowed in defeat, fingers linked between her knees, and nothing of her posture speaks well of Clarke's health.

Lexa stills herself beside the young warrior, second to one of her finest generals. Indra trusts this one, and though Lexa does not, there is something to be said of Indra's trust; it is neither freely nor easily given. Still, it is Clarke's trust in Octavia that prompts her.

For Lexa's trust lies solely in Clarke.

"Octavia," she nods, then steels herself. "How does she progress?"

Octavia swallows, and raises her head, eyes dark and worried and brimming with tears that will not fall before her Commander. Lexa knows this, for in spite of her lack of trust, Octavia is a promising warrior.

"She – " Octavia chokes and shakes her head. "She's not doing great, Heda."

Lexa waits, as patiently as her anxious feet and itching fingers allow, but this is not enough. This answer holds no information of value, to Lexa.

"She lost a lot of blood," Bellamy croaks, and with his willingness to be of help to her, Lexa observes as the stiffened people of the sky rustle their shoulders lower and retract their instinctive defense of their leader. "Abby says- She says that Clarke's chances will be a lot better if she can make it through the night, but right now it's…" He shrugs uselessly and ducks his head, back against the wall, dirt-coated fingernails scratching behind his neck.

"She is strong," Lexa determines after a moment, clearing the last four steps to Clarke's bedside.

Bellamy gestures with two fingers for the boy, Jasper, to vacate the seat situated near Clarke's head, and he jumps upward, eyes evaluating Lexa with pain and sorrow wetting his lashes.

"This is Lexa," Bellamy clears his throat and announces to those present. "She's the grounders' commander. Their _Heda_ ," he explains. "Clarke trusts her."

"Then we will, too," a darker skinned boy with slanted eyes not so different from Anya's nods determinedly, extending a palm toward Lexa. "I'm Monty."

Lexa grips his forearm with her own, though she knows, and has seen, that this is not the way of the Sky People. Still, it is habitual for her, and she spares little worry. Monty grasps her own arm in return, after a small moment of bemusement, and Lexa nods that he has performed adequately in his attempt to mimic her.

Lexa then takes the chair that has been offered to her.

"Clarke," Bellamy begins, quiet strength carrying his voice through the room, "is going to be okay."

"This is not something which you can promise to your people," Lexa dismisses idly.

Her fierce, evaluating eyes trace the length of Clarke's pale, rounded cheeks, remembering a time when they had flushed with the colors of warmth. She follows the line of Clarke's nose, and the unsettled wrinkle of her brow. Lexa watches her eyelashes play wildly beneath her eyes in troubled slumber, and measures the slope of Clarke's gloriously pink lips, parted in sleep and standing in stark contrast to the pallid flesh surrounding them.

Lexa remembers the slope of those lips, and the way they felt against her own – fearful, but willing, and soft, but with stifled passion rising beneath. Lexa wonders if she will feel that again; if she will feel the curious, doting emotions that play in Clarke's mind as her mouth catches flames across Lexa's own skin.

"You are strong," she says to Clarke, fingers reaching to stroke softly along the bone of jaw before her. "You must fight, Clarke. I need your spirit to stay where it is," she whispers, twisting her thumb around a curl that brushes the backs of her knuckles. She strokes the fine, golden hair between thumb and forefinger as though she is touching the sun itself; she is careful, and easy and reverent, for she knows that the sun gives life and light and love to the earth, but it, too, can burn Mountains and Earth and Sky alike, as the fire in Clarke's heart.

Lexa cares not that she can be heard. She cares not that Octavia, at least, has some measure of clout among her people, nor that her own warriors are housed within these walls, as well. She knows not if Clarke may hear her, but it is of no concern to Lexa.

These words are healing, for they are not only crafted for Clarke. They are for Lexa, too; they are a reminder that Clarke _is_ strong; they are a reminder that Clarke _can_ fight; they are a reminder of a time when Clarke had saved her, and whispered words that echoed with the same truth.

Lexa needs Clarke, too.

"I called her crazy," Jasper whispers to his shaking hands. "She said that that place was bad. She _told us_ it was too good, there. And I told her she was paranoid," he gasps, as Monty crowds his side and places an open palm upon his shoulder in comfort.

Lexa sees this from the corner of her eye, but she spares no sympathy. Clarke is their leader, and it is her duty to care for them; as such, it is their duty to _follow_. It is their duty to obey. And they did not.

"I told her we were done," Octavia says, eventually, face carefully void of the emotion Lexa knows rests within.

For Clarke had told her of this, too, and Octavia's words had broken her. They had shattered Clarke where there was little left to shatter, for her mother had already broken her first, and Clarke has shattered herself, too.

"I told her we were done, because she…"

Lexa stiffens, for this is the moment. This is the moment where Clarke's faith in her people is, once more, tested.

"She made a decision. And I disagreed," Octavia shakes her head, where Lexa rests her eyes in relief. For she had nearly killed this girl to keep that secret, and had made the decision not to based on nothing but Clarke's word. And, once more, Lexa's faith in Clarke is proven _just_. "I told her we would fight together, and then we were finished. I didn't mean it," she looks up to Bellamy, begging a forgiveness that Lexa believes with all of her heart should not be granted.

"Words carry weight," Lexa turns her head to the side, finding Octavia's eyes with her own, and glaring into them with brutal honesty. "Do not speak before you are certain of what you say, Octavia of the Sky."

"Yes, Heda," Octavia nods obediently, brows furrowing with worry. "But what if I can't fix it, now?" She asks, voice strained and eyes desperate for an easy answer that Lexa cannot offer.

"It need not be fixed," Lexa says stoically. "Clarke's faith in you is unwavering."

"But I wavered," Octavia drops her forehead into her palms with heavy regret that Lexa feels she is right to claim.

" _Hod up_ ," Lexa tells her venomously. " _Stop_. You all have wavered in Clarke's command," she announces coolly. "You all have caused more trouble than many believe you are worth. Still, Clarke has fought for you. She has sacrificed much, and has offered her life and blood so that you may keep yours. If your wish is to ease her struggle, then you have failed," Lexa paces her words with cruel decisiveness, and times them, too, ensuring that they reach not only the ears of her audience, but their hearts, as well. She is cold, and unforgiving, but honest in her sentiments. "If you wish to do better, then you must _be_ better. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Heda," Octavia swallows, clenching her jaw until the muscles ripple beneath the flesh.

The others of the room murmur a consensus, so Lexa nods. She cannot stay – not with Clarke's people hovering so cloyingly – but she soothes her fingers along Clarke's forehead as she stands, gently stroking lines of duress in a vain attempt to clear them away.

"Rest, Skai Prisa," she murmurs into Clarke's ear, breath warm but words trembling where she cannot give them strength. "I shall return to you, as you must to me. Rest," she whispers again, for there are more words she must speak, but not here, and not with such eager ears in attendance.

Not with Clarke still battling to wake.


	4. Chapter 4

Clarke sleeps for days, and for Lexa, each rise and fall of the blaring sun over the fields and forests of her lands carries with it a fear that simmers in her heart and drops into her stomach, devouring her from the inside like an acid with little regard for what it may eat through, caring only that it is _fed_.

The injustice of Clarke's health scorches her heart and her blood; she feels rage and panic and furious hate, and the inevitable frustration of being forced to handle the dealings of their alliance with Abby and Kane in Clarke's absence does nothing to set her at ease.

They have yet to touch upon any issue that Lexa believes should be a point of conflict, for they are stalled on a matter that Lexa feels could be easily resolved, were the Chancellor and her chosen Council less sentimental and more _sensible_ , instead.

Her people's dead have been carried from the slopes of the mountain, and Clarke's people have been, too – but the Skaikru have carefully lain their fallen along the inner edges of Camp Jaha's perimeter, and for two days Lexa has watched as they carry bucket upon bucket of water to their lifeless bodies, delicately soaking them with wetted cloths in a futile attempt to tame the stench. They are resolute in their desire to wait for Clarke to wake before any burials take place, and this is a notion that Lexa can appreciate – for she, too, wishes that Clarke could be present for it, and the Skai Prisa deserves this right.

Even amongst her own people, it is customary to bid the dead good fortune in their journey to the next life; it is unjust that Clarke will sleep through this catharsis, and Lexa wishes that it did not have to be so, but it is impractical to consider anything else.

It is a foolish act, no matter how well-meant, for the bodies are torn and their flesh is decaying, and each one of them reeks of death and blood.

"Em pleni," Lexa determines, finally. " _Enough_ ," she translates for the Sky People's benefit.

Her word silences Indra's insistent fury, but does nothing relieve it. Her dark-skinned warrior carries intolerance in her eyes and stubbornness in the stiffened stretch of her shoulders, but she falters backward half a step beneath the overwhelming presence of Lexa's brimming impatience.

"I understand that it is your wish for Clarke to… say goodbye," Lexa settles, for these are the words which Clarke had used with the boy, Finn, and Lexa must speak in ways the Sky People can understand. She can allow no room for misinterpretation without Clarke to smooth the differences between their peoples into something that can be understood by Trigedakru and Skaikru alike. "I wish that for Clarke, as well," she shares carefully, watching as Abby's mouth ticks and her eyes grow worried and afraid. Lexa feels her concern has arrived too late, for it should have begun beating the same terrifying pace that echoes in Lexa's chest from the moment Bellamy had announced Clarke's wounds. "But it cannot be so," Lexa declares with finality. "Clarke is healing, and has yet to wake," Lexa reminds them mercilessly, for she must remind herself of this, too, and bear it with the same impassiveness as everything else, disguising the hurt and concern beneath a sense of nausea that she cannot allow to be perceived, either. "We cannot wait. The beasts of the forests care little that these bodies have faces and their loved ones bear grief. Your fallen warriors will soon draw the creatures from their feeding places, carrying both our clans into a path of a danger that need not exist. The animals who share this land with us care not that Clarke is at rest. To their minds, your soldiers are nothing but a meal that you have slain and prepared for them."

"Clarke – "

"Would say the same," Lexa insists, mouth flat and jaw locked, eyes flashing with warning so fierce and discernible that few would be foolish enough to challenge it.

"These are not _your people_ ," Abby hisses, words spitting from behind her grinding teeth. "You do not decide what's best for us, _Commander_."

"Your dead deserve better than to be feasted upon by the gnats and ravaged by the wolves, bones plucked of flesh by the hungry beaks of vultures," Lexa snarls furiously, for Clarke's mother will not dare speak to Lexa with such insolent defiance again; Abby is fortunate enough to have been granted allowance to speak to Lexa at all _._ "Your people may not follow my command, but your warriors have fought and died for the sake of my people, and I will not allow them to be disgraced this way. If you are concerning yourself over what Clarke would want," Lexa declares coolly, "then concern yourself no further. Clarke would not wish this end upon her people.

"Burn them," Lexa orders. "Bury them. Let them float the waters of the river and make their way to the sea. Perform whichever ritual your people find most comfort in; I care not. But they will be dealt with by nightfall, or I will collect them myself and bid them to the next life with the blessings of my people."

"Abby, she's right," Kane sighs, shoulders deflating beneath the heavy weight of reason. "We're risking animal attacks on our people when it isn't necessary. We've just come from _war_ , Abby," Kane tries softly, fingers closing around her shoulder in a physical plea for understanding. "Our people shouldn't have to fight anymore; not when it can be avoided. Clarke will understand."

Abby purses her lips, but says nothing, eyes hard and unforgiving as she turns her back and exits Lexa's tent. Kane spares Lexa a glance on his way to follow and nods his reluctant acceptance of her issued command. Lexa nods in return, for she recognizes that this is painful, and she emphasizes; it brings her no pleasure to be the one who must force them to do what is necessary.

" _Skaikru,_ " Indra scoffs with trembling wrath.

Lexa eyes her carefully, observing as her feet pace ten steps forward, then ten back, fingers tangled together behind her and shoulders steeled with tension.

"Indra," Lexa calls for her, head lifted to a slight incline.

Her general stills instantly, standing taller in expectance. "Yes, Heda?" Indra replies dutifully.

Lexa pauses briefly, shifting her eyes to the letter of correspondence received from the Sea Nation's High Captain, declaring that their warriors have healed and are prepared to return to their oceans when Lexa may allow it. It concerns her little, for she will allow them their leave without delay; there is no reason they must remain, for their fight has been won. It is the distraction of looking to this letter, of touching it, that Lexa requires. For she will ask Indra what is bothering her, and if Lexa appears more than casually invested in a reply, Indra will not answer.

Lexa knows this, for it has happened before.

She may order her people to speak true, and under command, they will do as asked – but Lexa will not force Indra to reveal more than she is willing, for Indra would keep no secret that would endanger any part of Lexa.

"Something troubles you," Lexa remarks after a moment.

It is not so strange that she might ask, though the Sky People might think differently; Lexa's concern is for her people, always, but Indra has more rights than most in Lexa's company. Anya had been Indra's second, and Lexa had been Anya's; her general had once helped to train Lexa, to prepare her, and, consequently, a fair portion of what Lexa knows of war had been learned from Indra.

Lexa values Indra's words, even if she often believes them too impulsive.

"I worry, Heda," Indra replies carefully. "I worry that Skai Prisa will not wake, and if this becomes so, I cannot have faith that our people will receive this- _Chancellor_ so favorably," she sneers at the word, as though even the memory of Abby can affect her with disgust.

Lexa knows that it can, and Lexa can see that, already, it has.

Lexa nods slowly, for she fears this as well. She fears that Clarke may not wake for many reasons which she will not allow herself to think on for any considerable measure of time, but this concern has been forefront in her mind in the days since the Battle at Mount Weather.

"Clarke is strong," Lexa declares, an overwhelming sense of exhaustion prickling the muscles hidden beneath her neck and the nerves behind her eyes.

For she has deemed this so for days, and still Clarke has not awakened.

"Yes, Heda," Indra bows her head. "Skai Prisa is strong. But we must consider the fate of the alliance in the event that her strength does not prevail."

"This alliance would crumble without Clarke to steady it. She rests at the heart of this tentative peace," Lexa says quietly, but assuredly, fingers idly tracing the folds of the High Captain's letter. "For Clarke, however, I may promise this: though we may not bring aid to the Sky People when it is asked of us, they will see no harm from the Trigedakru, nor any who lie with us in treaty."

For Clarke's people have aided her own, and Lexa will not repay that in bloodshed.

Clarke's people are _Clarke's_ , and Lexa will not be the harbinger of their deaths. She could not bear it; could not bear such disgrace to the princess of the sky who had sacrificed all that she knew to give in order to prevent that exact end.

Indra considers this for a moment, nods, then shifts her body to face Lexa's. The Commander interprets this as a desire to speak more personably, so she, too, raises her head to meet her general's eyes.

"It is a fair decision, Heda," Indra declares. "Octavia has said much of how their Chancellors have led their people in past; their way will not agree with ours."

"Clarke's way does not agree with ours, either," Lexa answers as her brow climbs the flat of her forehead in unashamed curiosity.

For Lexa still knows little of how her people consider Clarke, and this may be an opportunity to learn. Indra is feared even by many of Lexa's own soldiers, but Lexa is certain that she is still more aware of the murmurings in their village than Lexa can afford to be.

Indra smirks, before nodding her head and conceding, "True. But she is now more eager for compromise than the mother."

"It has never been Clarke's wish to disrespect our customs, Indra," Lexa says pointedly, for the implication otherwise is both unwise and untrue.

"My apologies, Heda," Indra frowns, "but you misunderstand. My words were purposed to say that Skai Prisa is favored because she is _unwilling_ to disrespect our customs, and still unwilling to neglect her own."

Lexa calculates the sincerity in Indra's eyes and the profoundness of her words. It is true that Clarke does not understand many of their practices, but it is true, too, that she has done her best to seek explanations where many of her people would not. Lexa is not certain she can say the same, even of herself, for she knows little about the ways of the Sky People, and has not sought to learn.

Perhaps, Lexa considers, this is something deserving of change.

"She is- thought of as one of ours, Heda," Indra hesitates, which Lexa swiftly recognizes as unfamiliar. Indra is worried, yes – but for more than the sake of their alliance; Lexa believes that Indra is worried for _Clarke,_ and the realization of this reveals more of Clarke's worth to her people than any of the words that had spilt from Indra's mouth before it. "We have no desire to see her reign fall."

Lexa straightens her spine and clears her face of all softness, for it is difficult, in this room with only Indra for company, to keep her face from betraying her emotion with thoughts of Clarke so readily on her mind and tongue.

"Then we are in agreement," she spares to Indra with quiet, heavy feeling, before the last of her neutrality slinks across her face and threads through the chords of her voice.

Indra accepts this with a nod, and resumes her silent pacing.

* * *

Lexa has fallen victim to exhaustion when word arrives that Clarke has woken. Her guard knocks on the post outside and rushes in with fervor, but Lexa is so weighted by fatigue that it is a battle in itself not to release her dagger from across the room and spear him with it for the interruption of her hard-won sleep.

She retracts every hateful thought she'd spared him once she hears his mouth curl around Clarke's name.

She dresses with haste and forgoes the decorations of war paint, for they are no longer at war, and it matters little, for few will find themselves beneath the light of the moon at such a late hour. And even if this were not so – even if it had been high noon with the rustle of her people and Clarke's combined to contend with – Lexa cannot spare the time.

She must be with Clarke.

Her guards move with silent quickness at her sides, and when they arrive, they take immediate posts outside the entrance, as has become custom for them for each of Lexa's visits with Clarke.

Lexa hesitates, allowing herself just a moment to drink cool air through thirsty lungs, stilling the tremor of her hands outside of the Med Bay.

It has been eight days since the Battle at Mount Weather; eight days, and Lexa has felt each one like a pointed blade slicing through the backs of her knees. She has bowed beneath the helplessness and drained herself of any remaining faith; there is little left of Lexa but the Commander she was formed to be. But now Clarke is awake. She is awake, and violent relief blossoms through Lexa's body like a butterfly tearing itself from the walls of its cocoon and manipulating the air around its wings with grace, lifting into its first flight.

When she enters, there is silence.

Lexa offers enough consideration to this thought to find it peculiar, for Clarke's cot has been crowded with her people since they had first brought her back to her camp, and so it can mean nothing favorable that the room is now void but for Malloch, standing tall at Clarke's bedside with his fingers curled lazily around the hilt of his sword.

Still, Lexa cannot find it in herself to care, for Clarke's eyes are upon her.

Eyes that are sleepy, still, and soft and wide. The blue in them seems somehow both brighter and darker than Lexa remembers, but the beauty of them does not suffer for the change. There are clouds in Clarke's eyes, but the brewing storm is latent; it is in waiting, for Clarke is confused, and tired, and Lexa knows that there is pain hidden beneath those long blonde lashes, too.

Still, Clarke's eyes are the very vision of Lexa's heart, and Lexa swiftly finds herself both mute and immobile beneath the power of their scrutiny.

"Cage better be dead," Clarke hisses as she stretches to lift herself a little higher in Lexa's presence. "And if he isn't, I call dibs," she grumbles bitterly.

Lexa is by her side faster than she can think, palm carefully bracing Clarke's back to help her move; strong hands raise the blonde to sit against the wall behind her, but steer diligently away from injured flesh.

"I do not know what dibs are," Lexa shakes her head, heart blasting through her ribs like the missile that had so recently destroyed her village; devastating, earthshattering pain followed only by dreadful silence in its pounding wake. "But if Cage had not been felled by your hand," she whispers, voice failing to provide strength and volume to these words, "I assure you that he would have fallen beneath my own."

"I think that's almost comforting," Clarke chuckles, then winces, both hands holding to each of her wounds as they sear with the pain that accompanies her amusement.

"Be still," Lexa tells her urgently. Lexa draws in a long breath, and softens herself. "You are not well, Clarke."

"Yeah," Clarke nods, teeth clenched tightly together as she slurps several sharp, shallow sips of air into her aching lungs.

"Your people – " Lexa begins, understanding that though she is far more devoted to simply… _being_ with Clarke, in this moment, she must know if there is cause for concern.

Clarke's people would not have left her side without fair reason. Lexa knows this.

"They were irritating me," Clarke dismisses guiltily. "They were all here, and I was happy to see them," she confesses, though something else, too, colors her words, and it is not so light as a confession; it is the sound of burdens being weighed, and Lexa decides that it is too soon after such an injury for Clarke to have been gifted with such things. "But I needed space," Clarke sighs softly, chin tucking tiredly against her chest as her eyes find her lap and study the deer pelt that Lexa had both brought and left, so that she may offer Clarke warmth even in absence.

"I shall leave you to your space, then, Clarke of the Sky," Lexa murmurs, though she wishes nothing more than to stay for as long as Clarke may allow, so that she might only watch the way that Clarke's chest rises and falls in waking hours instead of slumbering ones; so that Lexa may breathe in her vitality and strength, and relish in the relaxing grip of the clawing fingers that had, for eight days, ripped against the flesh of her heart.

"No. Lexa, _wait_ ," Clarke insists as her head snaps upward, stilling Lexa's movement away from her with eyes that flicker in the quiet of the night, gleaming with a plea that lights Lexa's heart with a brand of sadness that she cannot stand. For Clarke _is_ confused, and she is tired, and she is hurt – but her eyes beg for Lexa's company when she has shunned the same offer from even her own people. Lexa recognizes in this that Clarke does not wish to be alone; she wishes only for company that will not lay responsibility and judgment at her feet. Lexa may provide that. "You aren't – " Clarke sighs again, words difficult to master and more difficult to allow release.

Eyes which Lexa had expired her patience in waiting to see find her own once more; she can see the storms in them move closer, threatening release, but the winds have not yet blown, and, for tonight, Lexa will shield Clarke from them.

"You don't count, Lexa," Clarke says softly.

Lexa nods her head in acquiescence, but her stoicism fails her when Clarke gasps a small breath of pain as she reaches forward to take Lexa's wrist in her hand.

"Stay," Clarke requests vulnerably. "Please," she whispers. "I need- I just need…" She breaks off, brows fusing together in frantic search, fingers stroking restlessly along the furs bunched at her waist.

Lexa believes that Clarke is unsure of what she needs, but this spurs little concern; for Lexa knows what Clarke needs, and will be sure that Clarke receives it.

"Rest," Lexa tells her gently. "You need _rest_ , Clarke. You may do so in peace; I will keep you safe."

"I thought that's what he was for," Clarke smiles weakly, tipping her head to indicate Malloch's nearly forgettable presence.

Lexa ponders this for a moment, then concedes, "Perhaps. But tonight I will relieve him of this chore. If you should find the notion appealing," Lexa steels herself, "I will lay with you and keep you safe tonight, Clarke. I will keep you safe," she vows, and it is hardly a whisper but Lexa ensures that her vehemence is clear.

For she had failed Clarke in this before, and Clarke has suffered for it. Even now, she suffers for Lexa's failure. And Lexa will not – _cannot_ – allow hurt of this nature to befall Clarke again.

Clarke's eyes scan Lexa's face with penetrating intensity, but Lexa has little left to hide from her, so she bares it all with doting eyes and a relieved heart that still wars furiously against her chest.

"Thank you," Clarke murmurs, finally. "For staying," she explains. "And for coming to see me," she adds quietly. "I appreciate that you were worried about me," she says sincerely, as though she knows the toll that this same worry has taken on Lexa, and could not be sorrier for it.

Lexa shakes her head, lips quirking with the edges of a smile that, for eight days, had altogether abandoned her. "My worry came on its own. I had little choice in that, Clarke. My care for you is above what it seems I am able to control."

"I'm kind of glad for that," Clarke smiles up at her tentatively. "If you had your way, Lexa, you wouldn't care about me at all. And I know that might make your life seem easier," she hesitates, but tightens her fingers around Lexa's wrist – where Lexa is sure the young healer must feel her pulse at race – and meets her eyes again, "but it would be really hard, for me, if you didn't care about me, too. You're- you're important to me, Lexa. I don't know what that means, yet, and I still need time, but… you should know. I think it's _fair_ for you to know," Clarke amends with a small nod, soothing Lexa's fraying nerves. "You're important to me, too, okay?" Clarke insists, eyes bleeding with determination to convey this earnest point.

Lexa's heart calms, though it is counterintuitive.

These words carry her from the precipice of ecstatic concern into the bays of quiet respite, for Clarke is well.

Clarke is well, and murmuring sweet words of hope and of promise, and Lexa is uncertain that it truly matters what Clarke says for the remainder of their time together, for these words have wrought such peace upon her heart that all Lexa can do is nod her acceptance of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit longer, but the alternative was cutting it off before Clarke woke up... I made an executive decision and concluded that you guys would probably prefer a bit more reading. :P Let me know what you think of Clarke, please. As always, thanks for your kind words and support. It is well appreciated.


	5. Chapter 5

Rest will not find Lexa.

She is more exhausted than she has ever known, for she has suffered eight, anguished days wishing nothing more than that Clarke may survive this devastation, so that Lexa may again marvel at the comfort that is offered to her only in Clarke's easy company; so that Lexa may once more drown herself in the overwhelming currents of Clarke's beauty and strength and drive and _heart._

Lexa is grateful, for her wish has mercifully been granted – but now that the blonde has once more proven herself worthy of the reverence that is gifted to her by her people, Lexa cannot bring herself to sacrifice a single moment of this time with Clarke to something so trivial as sleep.

For Clarke has woken.

She is recovering, still, and Lexa knows that Clarke's body must writhe in the hurt of her wounds with every soft pull of breath that is whispered between her teeth – but Clarke is _awake_ , and Lexa may meet the reflection of those kind, haunted blue eyes as frequently as Clarke may allow.

Rest will not find Lexa, for she is too relieved; her heart is too warm, her mind too at ease, and Lexa will not allow the sirens of sleep to strip her of this peace. Lexa is _relieved_ , and _thankful_ , and the aching emotions that swell within her heart chant arrhythmic beats against the linings of her chest, but it matters little.

It does not matter at all, to Lexa, for Clarke is folded carefully against the Commander's side and will not stray an inch from her flesh.

Lexa is cautious with her, and tender, for Lexa knows that Clarke is healing. Still, it is difficult to keep away from the Sky Prisa's injuries when Clarke is unfalteringly determined to press every inch of herself into Lexa's hip and ribs and neck and legs.

It is not entirely due to Clarke's will, Lexa knows, for they are tangled together in a bodiless knot of limbs and lethargy, yes, but even if Clarke had not so fiercely felt this need for physical, human comfort, the cot they lie upon would demand their position so.

The bed is too small for one, and hardly accommodates two, but Clarke has offered no complaint, and Lexa has no complaint in her possession to offer.

Lexa enjoys this feeling; enjoys the closeness of Clarke, and the quiet around them that does not stifle their words so much as render them unnecessary. She enjoys the solitude – for it is only Lexa, and only Clarke, and all that they _must_ do in this moment is simply share space, and undemanding companionship.

Lexa enjoys the feel of Clarke's soft cheek upon her collar; the feel of the muted breaths that sigh gentle, irregular streams of warmth through the thin fabric of Lexa's clothing. She enjoys the curious trip of delicate, questing fingertips as they slip beneath Lexa's shirt and touch upon the hard muscle of her abdomen, drawing comfort in nothing more than the knowledge that Lexa has allowed her the liberty to do so.

Lexa enjoys the inhuman purr that plucks through the chords of Clarke's throat as Lexa's nails strum soothingly, carefully, sweetly across the scalp beneath those otherworldly locks of blonde.

"That feels nice," Clarke murmurs, eyes fluttering briefly apart, and then shut once more as long lashes whisper across the rise of her cheeks and flicker pleasantly against the line of Lexa's jaw.

Lexa knows not how she may answer, for Clarke may believe that this feeling is nice, but Lexa believes only that it is the blessed hallmark of tranquility.

For she targets no effort into the rise of her chest, nor in the crash of its inevitable fall, yet Lexa's breaths both come and pass in unison with Clarke's, as though they seek to become a part of her. Lexa draws Clarke in with every mouthful of air that is towed to her lungs, recognizing this princess of the sky as the only one who may affect her so potently, and so shamelessly.

"Rest," Lexa tells her gently, lips tucked in a soft, secure press against Clarke's forehead – for Lexa may wish to fault Clarke for this aberrant display of affection, but in her heart, Lexa is equally desperate to see that it meets no end before it must.

For Lexa needs this, too. She requires this touch, and Clarke in her arms, for she has been without Clarke's active presence for too long, and Lexa's heart demands justice; it demands that she may keep Clarke for as long as Clarke so chooses, for Lexa has suffered eight days for her absence, and that time of deprivation must be repaid to her.

"I've been resting for over a week," Clarke counters dryly. "I just…" she sighs contentedly, nose nudging further into Lexa's neck until Lexa can feel the slight chill of Clarke's flesh upon her own skin. "I just need you to let me have this, Lexa," she whispers, nearly inaudibly, though does not elaborate.

Lexa finds that it is not necessary, for she knows what Clarke will not bring herself to say.

She knows that Clarke is lonely, and that she is afraid, for Lexa knows that Clarke has spared little thought to what may come _after_ war; has only pained herself over how she may survive it.

Lexa knows this, for she knows Clarke.

"Take what you will of me, Skai Prisa," Lexa vows tenderly, voice canting toward something low and undefined, but that is intimate without question. "I offer it freely."

Lexa hears Clarke swallow, but it is the slight tilt of her head – the mild shifting of angles that brings Clarke's murky blue eyes into assembly with her own – that stills the breath passing through her lips.

" _Thank you_ ," Clarke says, words soft and face bared without shame, eyes peering into Lexa as though she is something miraculous and foreign which cannot be deciphered, only held in treasured awe.

It is a look which Lexa cannot fathom, for it cannot be right that she is the one to receive it when it is only Clarke who has earned the right to claim it.

"I do not ask for your gratitude, Clarke," Lexa frowns. "I find comfort in knowing that you are well cared for."

The edges of Clarke's mouth rise into a smile that is small, perhaps, but which sacrifices no measure of radiance for its size – for it is beauty as Lexa has never seen, and Lexa may only stare at it and wonder, once more, when she might again feel the heat of that smile press into her own.

"Whether you've asked for my gratitude or not, you still have it, Lexa," Clarke promises earnestly, but sternly, as though trying desperately to make certain that this point is understood. Clarke then releases a soft sigh, and lowers her head to tuck it beneath Lexa's chin. "I'm not okay," Clark confesses on a brave huff of prideful air.

But Lexa has no need for this confession, for she knows that though Clarke's body is mending, her heart is burdened by grief, and confusion, and more guilt than Lexa believes it is right for Clarke to bear alone.

Lexa knows that Clarke is troubled, and this troubles Lexa in turn.

"I'm not okay," Clarke repeats quietly, breath shaking across Lexa's skin in turbulence. "But I feel better when you're here, and I know that you don't have to be. I know that you're the Commander, and you have more important things to do than babysit me," Clarke scoffs at herself. "I'm just… I'm really glad that you're still here, Lexa."

Lexa tenders her mouth across the top of Clarke's hair, and, with as much honesty as she can bear to express, softly murmurs, "There is nothing more important, Clarke. There is only you."

* * *

The Mountain Men still survive within their prisons, but this solution is only temporary. They may live on in the Mountain indefinitely, as they have for the past ninety-seven years, so it is not so much a matter of time that deems this conversation necessary, but a matter of justice.

It has been days of debate between Lexa and the Skaikru leaders in search of what they might do with them, for Lexa's people demand blood, but the Skaikru do not offer it.

The Skaikru offer flimsy ideals of sparing their lives in hope that they may see what humankind is capable of, and echo it within their own walls.

It is a foolish plan – if it may be considered one at all – for even if it might have some chance of succeeding, it would first require the Trigedakru to allow it. Lexa is certain that they will not, for her own fingers still itch along the blade of her dagger at even the mention of allowing the monsters of the Mountain to continue drawing breath.

"Jus drein jus daun," Lexa hisses to Abby impatiently. "Blood _must_ have blood. My people will not see peace until the Mountain Men have suffered, as we have suffered at their behest," Lexa tells her coldly.

"Your _people_ ," Abby begins incredulously, "killed over a _hundred men_ in that battle! That has to count for something!"

Clarke sighs, and Lexa hears it, for she has kept close watch of Clarke all day, despite Malloch's unwavering protection. It is only Clarke's second evening after her Awakening, and, still, her mother has brought this matter to Clarke's healing place.

They are in the Med Bay holding political council, and the peace achieved from the night before has long since faded in the shadow of this macabre discussion, but Lexa cannot argue that it is a matter of importance.

The Mountain Men may not remain in sanctuary forever; Lexa will not allow it.

"Battle doesn't count for anything but honor," Clarke murmurs to her lap, where a book which Clarke had named a sketchpad lies braced across her thighs.

Lexa feels pride swell wide and unforgiving in her chest, flooding through her veins until she can feel the twitch of her fingers aching to reach for Clarke in answer. For it is true, what Clarke has said, though Lexa has not explained this to her.

Clarke is learning the ways of her people quickly, and it flatters Lexa that she is devoted enough to try.

"How can you say that?" Abby whispers, appalled, brows drawn together in some displeasing concert of confusion and disgust.

Clarke's tongue swipes across her lips in thought as her head lifts, but the look in her eyes is hard once she finds her mother's critical gaze.

"We fought for our people because it was the _honorable_ thing to do; we could help them, so we did. We kill in battle because our only other _choice_ is to lose," Clarke tells her flatly. "It's kill or be killed; there _is_ no in between. There can be no hesitation, or it could cost you your life," she says infallibly. "Do you think I wanted to kill those men?" She frowns. "You think Bellamy, and Octavia, and Jasper, and Monty, and _everyone else_ who fought with us just killed for the fun of it, Mom?"

" _Of course not_ ," Abby argues vehemently. "But blood was still shed! The Mountain Men were already _punished,_ Clarke," she insists furiously.

"No," Clarke rolls her eyes, "they _weren't._ We went to Mount Weather to bring our people home. They didn't _give_ them to us," Clarke grits her teeth. "Those men weren't _punished_ for what they did, they were just in our _way_. Lexa's people are trained for war, Mom; they know better than to spare a life on the battlefield when it is safer to take one. Their deaths were painless – or as painless as death can be, at least," Clarke shrugs uneasily. "They didn't _suffer_."

She is right.

Lexa has felt the truth of this in every moment she thinks on that battle, for her people are formidable, yes, but their hearts are wide and tender; they have lost much to that Mountain, and Lexa will see that her people are paid what they are owed.

"I can't believe you're condoning this, Clarke!" Abby shouts, features pulled in confusion and aghast displeasure.

"I don't have to agree with it to understand it," Clarke shakes her head, disappointed rejection stirring mighty waves in the endless seas of her eyes.

Lexa feels something close to hatred for Abby, in that moment, for Clarke is strong, and good, and all that her people should aspire to become, but the Chancellor is demeaning that; she is taking Clarke's fire and stomping upon it with the heels of her foreign boots, and that will not stand, for, to Lexa, that fire is a sacred and precious thing, and it is to be _protected._

"Clarke is right," Lexa seethes quietly. "While you may not agree with our ways, it is not your place to cast judgment upon us."

"I think it's exactly my place," Abby argues defiantly. "If our people are to remain in alliance with yours – "

" _Clarke's_ people," Lexa snarls finally, for this will not continue; Lexa will not allow this woman to crucify her people only for the sake of her own narrow-mindedness. "They are _Clarke's_ people, and they will do as _Clarke_ commands. Surely you do not still delude yourself into believing that this is not so?" She condescends with fury.

The silence that follows is deafening, and Lexa cannot bring her eyes to meet Clarke's in the duration, for she has done what she had sworn to herself not to.

She has lain responsibility upon Clarke, but this, Lexa hopes, is a responsibility that Clarke has grown to accept; she is the Skai Prisa. The Skaikru follow _her_ command, over anyone else's. It is Clarke whom they trust to care for them, and to protect them, and this farce has continued long enough.

Lexa does not trust any part of Abigail Griffin, and she will not continue to hold these discussions with her as if her word still holds power. For now that Clarke has Awakened, Abby's title of Chancellor carries little weight, if any at all.

"Look," Clarke sighs eventually, face softening as she tries to negotiate, "I'm not saying that we take an army up the mountain tomorrow and slaughter everyone inside, okay? I'm just saying, alliances are about compromise, and we have to be willing to consider that the Grounders' needs and ways are different than ours.

"The fact that we crashed into the Earth and have somehow made our homes here does not make the Earth our possession," Clarke shakes her head, glancing toward her pages and smoothing her fingers along the blackened piece of charcoal that rests within her grasp. "There were people here before us, and just because they think differently from us does not mean that they are wrong, or that we are somehow _better_ than them, because we aren't. Lexa's people are honorable, and fair, and though they might seem crueler to you because of what they have done to survive, they still have a fully functioning society. They have rules, and ethics, and _damn_ good leadership," Clarke states firmly.

Lexa tries – and fails, though she is not overly bothered by the fact – to suppress her burgeoning smile, though it is directed only at Clarke.

For these words are more than a defense for Abby; these words are well-thought, and have been mulled over for some time. These words are the portrayal of Clarke's feelings about Lexa and her people, and these words are _kind_.

"You might not agree with what they do, but you can't argue that it works," Clarke persuades quietly. "The Mountain Men tried to kill my friends. They bled Lexa's people for _decades_ ," she presses onward. "If the Trigedakru need blood to repay that which they have lost," she says slowly, eyes boring into Abby's with stubborn righteousness, "I'm not going to lose much sleep over it."

Lexa may only swallow, for she is unnaturally emotional and will not reveal such things outside of Clarke's solitary company. Still, she is overwhelmed, and grateful, and her heart trips with wild ferocity inside of her chest.

"Who _are_ you?" Abby whispers, voice full of lamented wonder. "You are _not_ the girl I raised. Who _are_ you, Clarke? Is this really the kind of person you want to be?" Abby persists, stepping closer to Clarke's bedside.

Lexa's fingers curl around the hilt of her sword as her arm swings it from around her neck with a practiced arc that does not waver; Lexa does not move forward, but her warning is clear.

She does not believe that Abby will physically harm Clarke, no, but this emotional torture is worse for Clarke's frame of mind than a blow to the face would be to her already hurting body. It is not acceptable that her mother would treat her this way when all Clarke has done is offer the wisdom that her mother sorely lacks.

Abby's eyes flicker briefly with fear, before it is doggedly masked by determination.

"I am _exactly_ who you raised me to be," Clarke hisses abruptly, voice rumbling with the strength that had first named her as the Skaikru's Commander. She ignores Lexa's drawn sword, and glares into her mother's eyes with renewed rage. "You think things are the same on the Ground because you have a pin that says you're the one in charge, now, but you forget that our laws on the Ark were just as unforgiving. People were _executed_ , Mom. They were executed for stealing medicine for sick children, because we couldn't _afford_ for everyone to heal. They were executed for attacking guards who stole their rations and forced them to go _hungry_. Dad _,_ " Clarke chokes out, bitter anger rising from deep within her chest and spilling through her ragged speech, "was _floated,_ because he wanted to give our people a _chance_ ; he wanted to tell them that our home was dying, and let them _help us_ find a way to save it _._

"I would have been executed just for _knowing_ that secret, and you know it, Mom. You may blame Kane for putting me in the Sky Box, but we both know he only did his job. You were the one you put me in there, and you were the one responsible for Dad's execution," Clarke snarls viciously. "You think I'm being cruel, and you think I don't care about what happens to those people, but you're wrong," Clarke shakes her head.

"I _do_ care, and I'm sorry for them, because they've never known anything else – but that doesn't mean that they never had a choice; that doesn't mean that they couldn't have fought for the right thing," Clarke tells her solemnly. "And if you think, for even a _second_ , that we wouldn't have floated every last damn one of them for crimes less offensive than this, then you are _seriously_ misguided.

"I'm not saying it's right, and I'm not condoning how we handled things on the Ark, either, but can you promise me that they won't try this again a decade from now? Two? You _know_ how desperate we were to get to the Ground, Mom," Clarke snaps. "You and every other member on the Council _chose_ to send a hundred, expendable _children_ on a suicide mission to the Ground for a _test run_ , when everyone on the Ark thought it would be another five generations before Earth would be survivable again. Are you honestly going to tell me that you wouldn't have sacrificed forty-four people, if it would have meant that everyone on the Ark could have come to Earth? Your Council floated three hundred for just three more _months_ of air," she reminds mercilessly.

"That makes us _like_ them, Clarke," Abby shakes her head sadly. "It doesn't make us _different_ from them."

"Maybe they're too much like us," Clarke replies quietly. "Maybe your mistake is that you sympathize with them. But I can't do that," Clarke shakes her head. "I'm sorry, Mom, but I can't. And I won't. I won't risk the safety of my people for the sake of showing mercy when they have shown us none in return. Their hope for life on the Ground lives in _our_ bone marrow, and I won't let them take it from us. I don't trust that they won't make the same decision you would have, because they _are_ too much like us, and at _every_ turn, our people have proven that we would have chosen to make the sacrifice, too, if it meant our survival and prosperity. And our people would not have given up hope for life on the Ground just because some people killed a hundred of our guards; we would rally, and train more men, and keep _trying_.

"I'm sorry, Mom, but I won't let them try. Lexa's people want blood, and I vote to let them have it – if for nothing else than to show them that we will not tolerate what's been done to our people," Clarke finishes resolutely, jaw locked with determination and finality.

Abby merely blinks, tears wetting her dark lashes.

Lexa, however, stands in awe – for this is the Skai Prisa Lexa's people lay their loyalties to, and she is _strong_.

 _She_ will make the decisions for her people that no other holds the will to make. _Clarke_ will defend her people in any way necessary, and it is the mark of a leader whom Lexa is proud to stand in alliance with.

It is the mark of a woman whom Lexa is proud to share feelings for.

"I need to rest," Clarke murmurs finally, ducking her gaze back to her drawings.

It is all the dismissal Abby requires, for she swallows, and clears her throat, and turns finally to leave.

Lexa does not.

Lexa stays, and when Clarke's eyes look to her with that silent plea for company that Lexa will remember in her heart, always, she bows her head to Clarke in indication of her deep, endless respect and devoted appreciation.

Clarke may not understand the significance such a gesture would have to her people, but Clarke understands Lexa's meaning, for she smiles a sad, watery thing the presses over Lexa's heart in thanks when Lexa climbs into the cot beside her, once more.

Lexa eyes her with heartfelt veneration once Clarke has bended herself into Lexa's hold once more, with only small gasps of suffering that burn in Lexa's soul, but otherwise pass ignored.

The pain of Clarke's body cannot compare to the pain in Clarke's heart, for Abby's words and evident disgust had poured salt into wounds already far too fresh. Clarke's heart _hurts_ , and Lexa's aches in sympathy, for Clarke does not deserve this cruelty.

Lexa's own heart beats in tandem to the furious concern and intimate care that she feels for Clarke, and Lexa echoes all of that emotion into every feathered touch she lays across Clarke's flesh, even as Clarke's tears lightly soak the front of her shirt, and even as Clarke's loosely furled fists tremble where they coil against Lexa's chest.

"You are strong, Clarke," Lexa whispers devotedly. "You are so _strong._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a little (okay... a lot) more Clarke-heavy, but I wanted to try and get a better feel for her character in the written form. Let me know what you thought of her, please - and let me know about your thoughts on everything else, too! : ) Thanks!


	6. Chapter 6

"I'm calling for an election."

Lexa lifts her brow, some measure of incredulity peeking from beneath violent disgust.

Abby has _summoned_ Lexa to Camp Jaha.

It is day, now, and the fluorescent lights curbing off of the metallic coatings of each surface within the small room are far too harsh on Lexa's eyes, for she has only ever seen the Med Bay in the night.

Lexa believes that she prefers it.

For in the night, it is only Clarke that she may see; Clarke, with sad, grateful eyes, and golden hair which catches the moonlight in its waves as it shuffles through the damaged holes in the ceilings.

It is sin, to Lexa, that such precious moments have now been tainted with this treacherous declaration.

Lexa is furious, for, beyond the insult of being _summoned_ , Lexa is not certain why she is here. This matter is of little concern to her. She has seen the faith of Clarke's people, and it is unfaltering; their loyalty is to Clarke, in every instance which matters. Lexa knows little about the process of an election, but Clarke has explained its concept to her before; it is a vote, cast by the Skaikru, which decides their leaders.

And if it is a vote amongst Clarke's people, then Lexa has no _cause_ for concern. Clarke's people are as Lexa has deemed them: _Clarke's_. If there is an election, Clarke will not lose.

Lexa turns her gaze to the Skai Prisa with concern heavy in her heart, for she is confident in this belief, but Clarke is likely not so; the blonde had taken the position thrust upon her when she wanted little to do with it at all, but many have since expressed doubts in her leadership. Her mother is not the only one to question Clarke's choices.

When Lexa's eyes find her, the blonde's brows are clipped together in both frustration and impatience, lips parted for words that she clicks her teeth together in effort to keep confined.

"This has gone on long enough, Clarke," Abby sighs and shakes her head. "I understand that sending you to the Earth was a long shot, and that things didn't go as planned. I understand that you blame me for…" Abby sighs, the sound full of burdens which Lexa believes she has earned the punishment of carrying, "a lot of things," Abby settles, finally. "I understand that you've done what you needed to in order to stay alive, here," she nods, as though it will better convey a comprehension that Lexa does not feel Abby can truly claim, for how can she understand that which she has not suffered through herself? "I am _grateful_ for that," Abby promises ardently. "And I am _proud_ that you were able to keep yourself and all of those kids alive until we could get here," she insists softly, searching desperately in Clarke's eyes for some glimmer of affection.

Lexa is not certain that she will find it – for Clarke has love for her mother, but she, too, has love for her people, and wants only what will be best for them; Abby has not proven herself capable of making the decisions necessary for them to meet that end.

"But we are _not_ these kind of people, Clarke," Abby whispers with fervor. "I can't just stand back and let you give the okay to kill the Mountain Men, no matter what they've done to us," Abby says, pain catching in her throat and straining her words. "You," she says, turning her hips so that she might face Lexa's fury, instead of her daughter's, "have named Clarke our leader, but she _isn't_ a leader," Abby grits her teeth. "Clarke is a _kid_ ," she hisses. "She's a strong kid, and a smart one, but she is _still_ a _kid_ ," Abby fumes.

Lexa does not react.

It would be foolish to speak her mind, for it is clear to Lexa that if Clarke has not yet proven herself in her mother's eyes, then there can be no proof strong enough. For Clarke has saved her people, and has sacrificed everything she has wanted for herself to achieve it; she has shielded her weaknesses, and has forged strength from the flames that burned them.

Clarke _is_ a leader, and was born to become one.

Lexa knows this.

Lexa knows Clarke's strength, and her heart, and her wisdom. Lexa knows that Clarke would offer anything she must to keep her people safe, and that is _nothing_ but the mark of a true leader. Abby cannot recognize it, for she is not the leader her daughter has shown herself to be; Abby cannot see as Lexa can the suffering that lives in such responsibility.

Abby cannot see the way that _Clarke_ suffers.

"I'm calling for an election," Abby repeats firmly, "and when _I_ am chosen, or when _Kane_ is chosen, we're going to revisit the subject of the Mountain Men again. _Not_ before," she glowers. "Is that understood?"

The thought has not occurred to Lexa in past, for Abby is taxing and difficult and infuriatingly senseless, and she is weak in all the ways that a Commander must show strength, but the look in her eyes is eerily reminiscent of Clarke, in that moment.

It is the same fire, but it is wrong; this fire is misplaced, and burns only for the sake of pride. This fire is an echo. It is dim, by comparison, and its mere presence lights Lexa with rage, for it is a replica which cannot compare, and ought not try.

"I do not accept orders, Chancellor," Lexa replies coolly. " _I give them._ It is but half a day's journey from my village to the Mountain, and my warriors are eager for this punishment; they would march now and burn the Mountain by nightfall, if I commanded it so. It is for the sake of this alliance that I have allowed these discussions to continue, and it is for the sake of Clarke. Do not mistake my willingness to participate as an act of submission," she says sharply, eyes cold and disdainful. She allows enough silence to pass between them for her message to ring true, then continues. "My people care little for your opinions; their respect, and their loyalty, is with Clarke – and it is her word they will follow after mine," she says firmly, though she looks to Clarke as she speaks.

For it is true, but Lexa is not certain that Clarke has been made to understand this.

She has been healing, and though she is stubborn and has, for days, been moving around Camp Jaha against her mother's instruction, Clarke has spent little time among the Trigedakru since the Battle at Mount Weather.

In that time, Lexa has learned much about her people's beliefs of Clarke. They hold the Skai Prisa in the highest of regard; they would follow her in Lexa's absence, and this is not a circumstance Lexa has yet heard of amongst her people.

The Commander's word is law, but Lexa believes that Clarke's word may, too, be the same.

"Do whatever you think you need to," Clarke steels her jaw, muscles pulling against her mouth to create a hard frown.

She says nothing else, though Lexa can see in her eyes and the whitening of her knuckles that she thinks far more on the subject than she is willing to speak aloud. Still, Abby sighs as though she, too, has been rocked with disappointment, and shakes her head as she leaves.

* * *

Clarke has spent hours with papers spread around the bed in the tent her people had prepared for her in the wake of the Battle, tracking words which Lexa cannot understand with fingers that shake with exhaustion and remorse and endless pain. Lexa has not heard Clarke speak of her mother's promise for election, but Lexa knows better than to ask; Clarke will alert her if it becomes a concern.

Still, Lexa is worried for her; Clarke is tired, and her wounds are largely healed, but they are still tender. She needs the rest Lexa continues to insist upon, but she will not – _cannot_ – take it.

Clarke will not stop, for she insists that a solution has yet to be found, and if there _is_ to be a change in regime, there must be a plan in place that is both practical for the sake of the Skaikru, and satisfying for the sake of the Trigedakru.

The proposal that Clarke offers to Lexa in the days that follow is detailed, if not entirely gratifying.

"I know," Clarke sighs, palms braced on the wooden table before her as she hovers over a folder which Lexa thinks Clarke named 'vanilla'; it does not bear the scent of such a plant, but Lexa supposes it is similar in color. "It's not perfect for you, and your people want all of them dead, but you know that's not realistic, Lexa," Clarke tells her, though her eyes do not move from the packet of papers beneath her nose.

Lexa casts her eyes upon them as well, stepping closely behind Clarke and slipping her fingers beneath the blonde's outstretched arm. She does not touch Clarke, but folds the papers in her grasp and eases them back. Clarke's head lifts and curves over her shoulder as she watches Lexa's hand retreat.

"It is not perfect," Lexa agrees quietly, "but compromises rarely are. You respect that my people require this for peace," Lexa murmurs softly, "and we may, too, respect that your people require some survivors to achieve the same. It is not perfect," Lexa repeats, eyeing the papers before her with unashamed intensity, "but it is fair."

There are many names on this list, and the effort which Clarke must have expended in its creation does not escape Lexa's attention.

Clarke tells her, first, that the Mountain children are to be spared. That point emerges with clipped finality, and it is evident to Lexa that, should she have felt the need to disagree, it would have been non-negotiable for Clarke. Still, this is acceptable, for Lexa's people have no desire to bring death upon those who have not yet grown to fully understand their crimes. Her people are not heartless; justice cannot be taken from children too young to understand its concept.

Lexa is not pleased, but she is prideful when the elderly do not follow, for she had worried that Clarke's heart might demand they be spared, as well. Lexa can empathize, for elders are to be respected and not demeaned, but she knows that it cannot be just for the Mountain elders to live on when it is they who have allowed this treatment of her people to continue longest. Clarke does not speak the words aloud, but Lexa believes that she agrees, for she pointedly avoids mentioning them at all.

The list is comprised of names and photos – something which seems foreign to Lexa, for the closest she has seen to such advanced portraiture is a painting spied on the walls of Mount Weather in her path to find Clarke after the battle – and the names are collected based upon the knowledge found in medical files which Clarke had ordered be salvaged from the Mountain.

It is the list of people who will suffer for their people's ignorance and ambition.

"Tell me again," Lexa requests gently.

For if she is to explain to her people why the Mountain Men have not _all_ been nominated for execution, Lexa must be able to provide reason that her people may understand.

Clarke sighs, and Lexa is deeply sorry that such weight has fallen upon her shoulders once more, but this must be done.

"Please, Clarke," Lexa persuades, reaching gently to soothe her finger along the pulsing vein in Clarke's wrist in an effort to provide comfort, for Lexa knows that Clarke is in need of it.

Lexa is the Commander, here, and cannot spare the soft kiss that her heart aches to whisper across Clarke's forehead, for she must tend to the matters of her people before anything else. But Clarke is only ever _Clarke_ , even as she leads, and it can be no more evident to Lexa that she is hurting beneath those tired eyes of blue. Lexa offers this small touch to the Skai Prisa in spite of her position, for she is the Commander, yes, but she is also Lexa, and Lexa worries endlessly for Clarke's wellbeing.

Clarke swallows thickly, meeting Lexa's eyes with weary acceptance, then nods.

"No children," she says again, as Lexa shifts unwillingly – and _unintentionally_ – closer, front grazing lightly against Clarke's back.

Lexa nods her confirmation, and Clarke inhales, holds the steadying breath tightly in her lungs, and then softly releases.

"And the ones who helped our people are not to be harmed, Lexa," Clarke says firmly. "I mean that. They risked everything to keep my people safe, and some of them even died for it. They did the right thing, and they won't be punished for it."

Lexa eyes her speculatively, but it requires little thought; Clarke's people may not be her own, but – for Clarke – Lexa is glad that her people have survived. If Clarke wishes to spare those who helped them, Lexa will acquiesce.

The Trigedakru understand that debts must be repaid, and they will not deny Clarke the right to repay one of such great magnitude.

Lexa nods again, and Clarke smiles slightly in return. It is not enough, for Lexa sees the darkness that lurks at its edges, threatening in its nearly imperceptible presence – but it is a relief to see it, nevertheless.

"The rest?" Lexa prompts carefully.

"Everyone over the age of sixteen who has accepted unnecessary treatment within the past six years," Clarke rests her eyes, blonde lashes camouflaged against the pale color of her sunken cheeks.

"Only six?" Lexa inquires.

Clarke frowns in return, confusion marking the furrow of her brow and the mild wrinkle of her nose. "Lincoln told me that you took your place as Commander six years ago. I think Octavia mentioned once that the Commander is only allowed to issue punishments for offenses that occurred during your tenure. Was that… wrong?"

Lexa's mouth itches for a smile, for Clarke is precious in this moment of insecurity.

Lexa is coming to know more, with each day that passes, about the way that Clarke learns. For Clarke does not immerse herself in their culture as Octavia, but she pays close attention, still. Clarke listens, and she watches, and she mulls over what she has observed until she may make sense of their customs in her own way.

It is remarkable that she might care to learn, yes, but Lexa is perpetually floored by her eagerness to apply her knowledge in ways that may benefit Lexa and her people.

"No," she replies softly. "It was not wrong. I am thankful that you would remember," she whispers softly.

Clarke nods slowly, but presses onward; Lexa does not question it, for she knows that Clarke needs nothing more than for this conversation to be ended.

"The Mountain Men don't know how to treat radiation poisoning any other way than through the blood of your people," Clarke explains quietly, eyes flitting downward to meet with Lexa's shoulder. "Not effectively, anyway. And they don't have the supplies to treat everything else. It isn't fair, Lexa. I _know_ that it isn't fair," Clarke insists. "But they didn't know any other way. I looked through all the files myself, and," Clarke swallows, eyes hiding beneath heavy lids weighted by the morbid nature of this chore, "some of them honestly couldn't have survived without treatment.

"I think they should be allowed to live," Clarke says quietly. "I think that if they wouldn't have survived without the treatment, then that would strip them of whatever choice they might have felt they had. But a lot of them were treated for things like first degree burns, and little cuts and scrapes," Clarke clears her throat, fingers cinching around the wood beneath her palms.

Lexa reaches around Clarke's waist and feathers her hands atop them, for Clarke is in such pain, and Lexa's heart cannot bear to let it pass without comfort.

Lexa knows that Clarke had not wanted this. Clarke does not wish for anyone to suffer when it need not be so. This task should not have fallen to Clarke, for the Skai Prisa is too kindhearted for it not to leave impact, and she is far too fragile, still, for it not to bear consequences.

Clarke will break tonight, in Lexa's arms.

Lexa will allow it – _welcome it_ – for Clarke is now carrying the weight of not only her own people's needs, but Lexa's, too. She is designing this list in a manner that might bring satisfaction to the Skaikru, but it is crafted with the earnest purpose of offering Lexa's people justice, and that will not be forgotten.

Not by Lexa, nor by her people.


	7. Chapter 7

Lexa is concerned.

She is rather _deeply_ concerned, for she has been told that the morning will bring the Skaikru Election, and Lexa has been anticipating the inevitable discussion that must be shared with Clarke for days, now – but Lexa has thus far had no need for the words which she has prepared.

Clarke has shown little discernible care for the matter at all; the Skai Prisa had only mentioned the settled upon date once, and merely in passing, as though, to Clarke's mind, it bore no significance of any kind. Lexa finds it to be discomforting, for Lexa knows the loyalty of Clarke's people, but Clarke doubts even that she is worthy of such faith. And, given her mother's recent words on the subject, Lexa knows – _understands_ – that Clarke's sense of self-worth is suffering.

It makes little sense, to Lexa, that this election would not be cause for distress in Clarke.

She has watched carefully the muscles which pull frowns against the lines of Clarke's mouth with infuriating, devastating frequency, and the absent curling of fingertips into palms, crushing dull nails into tender flesh. Lexa has measured the rigid tension of Clarke's shoulders, rippling beneath the weight of all that she carries, but never wavering; only tightening, strengthening, so that she may bear more when it is asked of her.

It is not that Clarke is well, for Lexa knows that she is not; Lexa has seen the sadness of Clarke, and the constantly buzzing hum of worry that flickers to life in the shadows that hover in the corners of her eyes. She has spied the crippling fear, and the ashamed, staggering waver of confidence.

There is _great_ worry in Clarke's heart; Lexa knows this – her own heart _breaks_ for it – but Lexa can find no more worry in Clarke than there had been before her mother's bold and foolish declaration.

She is in pain, yes – for Clarke's heart is tired and suffering, and her body is still weak.

Clarke may now move between the Trigedakru and Skaikru camps, but she cannot make this trek without agony; she is not reckless with herself – Lexa believes that Clarke is too much of a healer at heart to allow for recklessness with physical injury – but Clarke has edged into far braver depths with her health than Lexa may claim comfort in supporting.

Lexa's concern for Clarke is shattering in its relentless persistence, for it begs war between her heart and mind, pulsing adrenaline through Lexa's veins for which she has no outlet. Lexa knows that Clarke must lead her people; she wishes only that Clarke could do so without the weight that must come with it, and from the healing roots of a _bed._

Still, despite the discomfort of the journey, Clarke comes to Lexa when Lexa does not find her first – for Lexa could only justify visits to the Med Bay when Clarke was still confined to her cot _within_ the Med Bay, and she now may only find Clarke in her Skaikru tent when the Commander has tired herself of searching for reasons why she should not.

Lexa finds herself in Clarke's camp more nights than her own, for her reasons to see Clarke far outweigh whatever flimsy excuse she can craft not to. It is baffling, for it should not be so _difficult_ to produce such reason.

But it is Clarke, and the memory of her soft, yellow hair tickling the length of Lexa's neck, her body curled against Lexa's chest or hugged warmly around Lexa's back in sleep is enough to keep at bay the haunting echo of weakness that thrums in the back of the Commander's mind.

And so when Lexa has settled herself upon Clarke's bed, arm curled loosely around the blonde's neck with Clarke's shoulder blades pressing softly against Lexa's chest, she calls for Clarke's attention with a soothing trace of her index finger through the gentle curve of Clarke's elbow.

Clarke hums softly to acknowledge her captured attention, but otherwise offers nothing.

"Clarke," Lexa murmurs softly, for Clarke is unashamedly sleepy, and in this moment she is precious, and warm, and Lexa feels that such perfect charm is perfectly un _just_ , but Lexa must voice the question that has burned in her veins for so many nights before this one, for she can feel its flames threatening to sear through to her skin, and she may bear it no longer.

"Are you okay?" Clarke asks blearily, eyes tiredly blinking apart to meet Lexa's own, peering affectionately down at her as the blonde rolls minutely to the side, her hip shuffling between Lexa's outstretched legs until she lays as a kitten might, cheek smoothing soft nuzzles against Lexa's chest as her legs tuck closer for warmth.

"You have told me that there is to be an election," Lexa paces her words carefully, "yet you have spared it no concern. Why?"

Lexa's curiosity is an impossible thing, for it is tenacious, but it, too, is proud. Lexa has never cared for prying inquiries, and has made habit of employing tactical observation and thorough scrutiny to avoid them when such things are possible.

But Clarke–

She is not a puzzle which Lexa may solve without voice, for Clarke cannot be understood only in action; Clarke hides nothing – _can_ hide nothing – but, still, there is much in her heart, and Clarke cannot offer it all at once. Even if she could, even if Lexa might be so honored as to read each flutter of emotion and feeling as it creeps beneath Clarke's flesh and overcomes her, Lexa believes she might still have need to ask – for Clarke's feelings are deep, and often such deep and varying emotion may only bear reason in the thought behind them.

Clarke sighs softly, fingers cinching around the fabric of Lexa's top, just beneath her breast. Lexa's heart pounds against her chest as though it is an instrument designed for such torture, but it is not; her ribs feel too tight, and her blood too hot, for it is nothing that she has felt in past – this need to fulfill Clarke's desire to be close with her.

Lexa's palm falls from the bend of Clarke's arm and covers the soft flesh of her abdomen, instead; Lexa does not slip beneath Clarke's clothing, for this inquiry is important and an answer must be found, but Lexa is tempted; tempted to know if Clarke may allow such an intimate caress upon her naked flesh by Lexa's hand.

"Because," Clarke replies quietly, "it really isn't worth worrying over."

It is true, for Clarke's people will cast their votes in whichever manner they so choose, no matter Clarke's opinion of the matter, but it does not sound like _Clarke_. These are Lexa's words falling from her lips – for Lexa has not voiced them, but these are unquestionably her words – and Lexa believes that it is _wrong_.

"My mind knows this truth," Lexa admits, breathing the words into Clarke's blonde curls, "but it, too, knows your inability to reconcile such notions with your heart."

Clarke says nothing for some measure of time that is somehow too short and too long, all at once; entire galaxies live and burn and begin anew within the span of this silence, before Clarke shakes her head gently, and deigns to reply.

"My people won't vote," she says quietly.

Lexa frowns, for she has been made to believe that democracy is the _way_ of Clarke's people; Clarke has said that the Skaikru would raise hell and topple mountains to maintain even the illusion of its standards, so how may they now justify not casting a vote? And for what purpose?

"You seem sure," Lexa notes, eyebrow inching upward, though Clarke's eyes, slanted in the later stages of drowsiness, are hardly focused enough to find meaning in it.

Clarke rolls her shoulder, but does not answer.

" _Clarke,_ " Lexa pleads softly, desperately, for it is difficult enough to understand Clarke without the Sky Princess' reluctance, but the presence of it hurts Lexa's spirit in ways her heart may only understand in fragments.

For what purpose can she serve Clarke if Clarke will not allow her aid at all?

But Clarke proves herself once more, for she does not continue to offer stilted answers which bear nothing of import to Lexa's mind. She offers Lexa truth, and honesty, and gut-wrenching insecurity, which scores in Lexa's heart and _devours_ her with rage.

"Ark rules," Clarke whispers, face digging further over Lexa's heart like she may somehow burrow there and hide this life away. "The laws on the Ark were very clear; candidates for election have to be twenty-five years of age or older to be put on the ballot."

Every blazing path of fury within Lexa freezes.

"I'm only eighteen, Lexa," Clarke explains, though it is unnecessary.

Lexa had not known Clarke's age; the roundness of her cheeks and the fullness of her body had merely named her a woman, to Lexa's eyes, but the moment Clarke had announced such a stipulation of age, it had become clear that Clarke did not meet it.

"You should have told me this before," Lexa frowns, hands pulling from Clarke's touch with a coldness that she has felt rarely in Clarke's presence. "If your name will not be considered for vote, it changes everything with the alliance between our peoples, Clarke," she condescends, though she does not intend it; Lexa may only tremble in the fear of what this might mean, for she has only just _found_ Clarke, and has only just begun to feel the warmth of her presence and the heat of her touch, and Lexa is not _willing_ to release her so soon.

Lexa is not willing to release Clarke _at all._

Clarke shifts forward, sensing the atmospheric change and likely the harsh snap of Lexa's voice so very close to her own ear. Her eyes dim with blatant rejection, which instantly swallows the chill from Lexa's heart only to replace it with another frigid burst of rawness, for _she_ has made Clarke feel this pain.

"They won't vote," Clarke tells her again, though she shrinks further away from Lexa's body, and her fingers toy mindlessly with the edges of her deerskin pelt, eyes vaulting across the room for purchase that she will not find, for it is not that Clarke wishes to _find_ _anything_ ; she wishes only to escape Lexa's gaze.

For it had been brief – _and_ _misunderstood_ , Lexa insists to herself – but she had cast judgment upon Clarke when she has only ever promised not to.

"The forty-three people left of those who came down with me don't trust any of the adults in our camp not to imprison them, or demean them, and they've worked too hard and have sacrificed too much to let that happen," Clarke whispers, then clears her throat and blinks jarringly. "And the Arkers who followed won't elect my mother or Kane, because as much as they don't trust me in any position of political power, they trust that you would honor our alliance even less in my absence. They're afraid. They've seen what your army can do, and they don't want to fight against it. I didn't tell you," Clarke whispers, head bowing and eyes closing against the soft vulnerability sleuthing behind them, "because it isn't going to change anything. My mother is determined to keep things the same, but everyone else knows that the Ark rules can't apply here. Not anymore. We're learning, and we're surviving, and we did fine without the Trigedakru's help – but my people aren't _stupid_ , Lexa. They know that if it comes down to it, we know nothing about your land by comparison. This alliance with your people can only benefit my own, and they know that. They won't vote," Clarke repeats, quiet conviction pulsing through her words, even as hurt and insecurity threads through them, too.

"I am… sorry, Clarke," Lexa lowers her head, shame pooling in her gut and stinging beneath the lids of her eyes. "I should have known better than to doubt your decision. I was- afraid," she confesses, voice cracking where her faux strength fails.

Lexa feels the heat of Clarke's stare before her periphery can view it, but the moment it is detected, Lexa's gaze meets the drawn, contemplative emotion baring itself to her in Clarke's.

"I was afraid," Lexa sighs softly, "that I might fail you. If you do not lead your people, Clarke," Lexa swallows, reaching tentative palms forward in hope that Clarke may accept her touch in spite of her falter, stroking relieved fingers across Clarke's cheek and jaw when her touch is mercifully allowed, "this alliance will not stand. Not so soon," she shakes her head gently, then pulls softly at Clarke's face until the Skai Prisa hesitantly lowers herself between Lexa's legs once more, stomach bearing flat upon Lexa's own in a manner which makes Lexa shiver, for Clarke has been this close to her before – so close that distance has lost purpose and meaning and physical existence – but so rarely has it occurred with Clarke's face so close to her own, her eyes only blinks apart from Lexa's eager, apologetic green.

"My people have little faith in yours; they have faith in _you,_ Clarke. Without you, they consider their debt to the Skaikru paid. And I- I will not lose you to your mother's ego, Clarke," Lexa says, briefly eying the small stretch of smile that threatens at the edges of Clarke's mouth, for it catches the breath from Lexa's lungs before she has even registered the small, sharp gasp that had drawn it there.

Clarke offers one, steady palm to Lexa's chest, using it to aid her in balance as its opposite threads fingers through the loose hair at Lexa's temple. Lexa does not purr – she bears none of the kitten-like charm which Clarke makes so familiar and beloved – but if Lexa had ever felt a moment when she might, this would be that moment.

For Clarke's fingers are tender, and gentle, and caring, and they move across Lexa's scalp and through her hair as though her only purpose is simply to touch, and to provide comfort through it.

"You won't lose me at all, Lexa," Clarke promises ardently, head lowering until Lexa may feel her breaths fall against her face.

And then it is Clarke's lips which follow, delicately stroking along the tanned skin of Lexa's cheek, soothing affection across her flesh. Lexa feels the warmth which flushes through her own face and the wide, loving station of her eyes, but she cares little that she is so blatantly exposed.

For it is hardly a fold of lips against the smooth plane beneath her eye, but it is a promise. Lexa can feel it in the soft dig of Clarke's nails in her chest, and she may see it plainly in the sure, devoted look which drowns Lexa in the calm seas of Clarke's eyes.

Lexa had feared she might yet lose Clarke; that she might survive a war and the burdens it carries and the two bullet wounds which had resulted, only to lose the Skai Prisa to nonsensical Skaikru politics.

Lexa had feared she might lose Clarke, but that, Lexa decides, is something she vows will not occur. For she now feels closer to Clarke than ever before, and it is nothing to do with politics or families or people outside of this tent; it is only Lexa, and only Clarke, and all that they _must_ do is simply share space, and undemanding companionship.

This is all that they _must_ do, and yet Clarke chooses to lay in her arms; chooses to forgive her blunder. Clarke _chooses_ to be in Lexa's company, and pride and affection swell wide in Lexa's heart in answer.

Lexa may only use her emotion to guide her hands, gently shuffling a shaking palm up Clarke's spine, fingers tripping lightly over the nape of the blonde's neck, sifting her fingers through her hair and pressing softly down in effort to bring Clarke closer.

As close as Clarke may allow.

Clarke is sleepy, and emotionally weary, and she allows more than Lexa thinks her righteousness and anger might otherwise permit, but Lexa will offer no complaint, for she may only soothe Clarke in this peaceful silence, and relish the closeness of her in the quiet of this tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... My feelings necessitated fluff, and this is what happened. Let me know what you think?


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so it's not my longest chapter, but I thought you might prefer a small update as opposed to no update. I've been crazy busy, guys. Some new girl at work quit her job, so I've been working extra hours, and that sacrifices time to study, which I need; I had an exam this morning and two more are coming up next week. This is the best I can do for the moment – though, hopefully, I'll finally get to the 'Election' this weekend. But I've been trying to work in this conversation with Lexa and Octavia, and this seemed like a decent time to do it. Plus, there are important bits at the beginning that may not become relevant for a little while, but they needed to be included. Please comment. : )

Lexa is not surprised that Clarke is missing when the Skaikru polling begins.

The first indication that she has excused herself for the event is the noticeable absence of Clarke from her own tent, and Lexa swiftly determines this to be unacceptable; waking in the endless comfort of Clarke's warmth is nearly as fulfilling to Lexa as drifting to sleep coiled around it, and to be deprived of that liberty sours the Commander's mood only moments after the rising sun has shaken her from rest.

She understands Clarke's uncertainty, for no matter how this election proceeds, Clarke will not emerge the victor; Lexa trusts in Clarke's evaluation that her people will not vote, but if they do not, then Clarke is still fated to be crushed beneath the weight of a responsibility for her people that she has never wanted to claim. If they choose to vote – if Kane or Abby are chosen in Clarke's stead – Lexa knows that Clarke, still, must suffer for it.

For, if it occurs, Clarke may do nothing but watch on in silence as her people fall beneath the irrationality of Abby's ego, or are lead into danger by Kane's thoughtless attempts at peace.

That is not to say that peace is unachievable, for Lexa believes that the possibility is sound, but the alliance with the Trigedakru had been forged in times of war; Lexa had required the Skaikru's aid to breach the Mountain, but the other clans of the Earth have no need for such an alliance. If one is to be formed, it must be guided – likely by Lexa's own hand.

And Lexa will promise nothing beyond safe passage to the Skaikru without Clarke as their leader.

The others do not bear the same understanding as Clarke for the ways of outside cultures. Kane does try – Lexa will grant him that, if nothing else – but he, like Abby, is stubborn, and he, too, believes the Trigedakru's ways to be savage. His discomfort in their presence is evident, and even if he might bear some level of understanding and interest for their ways, he does not wholly accept them.

He accepts the things which Clarke has done for her people, and even offers mild support when it is called for, but the man is too soft to be the sole party accountable for such choices. His decisions are rash, no matter how well-meant.

He is not suited for a role of leadership, no, but Lexa believes that he makes a fine member of Council. His opinions are of worth, for he is willing to look beyond the surface and determine long-term strategy. Lexa, as Commander, can appreciate the value of a devoted and loyal warrior, and she believes that Kane bears potential; he follows well.

Abby does not.

Abby is short-sighted and prideful, and she is foolish, too. Lexa sees Clarke in Abby's kind heart, and she is grateful for that gift, but that is where Lexa's fondness for her ends. Abby has held the position of Chancellor for most of the Ark's time on the Ground, yet she has done nothing with it but stand in the way of Clarke's better judgment. The fact that the Skaikru still _allow_ Clarke to make the decisions in the stead of their designated Chancellor tells Lexa only that Abby does not carry the strength to command the position she ignorantly continues to seek.

For Abby desires peace, yes, but she is unwilling to march the lengths required to achieve it. She, too, is soft – and in a far worse manner. She is unwilling to sacrifice humanity for anything, even when its presence may lead only to the deaths of her own people.

She has ostracized Clarke, yet still maintains some deluded image of caring for her; she has criticized the Skai Prisa at every turn, with no apparent desire to understand her choices or the reason invested within them. It is the mark of a very _poor_ leader, whom Lexa struggles merely to stand in the same _room_ with; she will grant Clarke's mother no illusion of authority, no matter the outcome of the day's Election.

Without Clarke, her people will fail. They will not survive the winter, and certainly will not survive the meeting that must soon occur between the twelve clans; Lexa is Commander, and she leads The Coalition's armies, but even she cannot demand their respect. Even if that were something feasible, she would not, for Lexa does not care for the Skaikru's typically narrow-minded ways of thought.

It is Clarke who provides the strength and wisdom they require. It is Clarke who must lead them, for any other solution will end only in their extinction, likely fairly soon.

Trade between the twelve clans is nearly essential to survival in the months of cold; the Sea Nation and the Boat People bring fresh catch from the oceans when the local beasts crawl to their caves for hibernation, and those of the warmer regions to the south carry medicines which cannot be found in Trigedakru lands. Before The Coalition, winters for the Trigedakru had been widely marked with sickness, starvation, and death. The Skaikru require the trade, and it will not be offered to a people whom the Generals do not respect.

It will not be offered to a _leader_ whom they do not respect.

Thus, the Skaikru _need_ Clarke – more than they are yet able to comprehend.

Lexa may understand better than most – _better than anyone_ – the conflict that this must elicit in Clarke, but she is capable of nothing that will ease Clarke's tired mind.

Still, it does not stop Lexa from searching for her, for Clarke should not be alone with such bleak thoughts; they are unavoidable, perhaps, but Lexa may share in them. Lexa may offer her ear and her comfort to Clarke, if it might be allowed.

* * *

Lexa passes only three other tents before she is delayed, and irritation flickers beneath the lines of her brow at the encumbering nuisance. Lexa wishes only to be at Clarke's side; to offer the Skai Prisa the support which she has so detrimentally been denied in recent weeks.

She has no patience for any obstacle that may impede her progress toward that end.

"Speak," Lexa demands swiftly.

The young warrior of the Skaikru blinks steadily for a moment, before she deflates. Octavia's shoulders sink inward, face falling beneath inner concern and turmoil.

"Clarke isn't with you?" Octavia asks, defeated.

Lexa eyes her for a moment, noting the furrow of the girl's brows, and the wide eyes which indicate a worry that Lexa cannot soothe.

"No," the Commander replies simply. "She is not."

She spares a moment to wonder if it has become expected, from Clarke's people, to find her in the Skai Prisa's company. It is worrying, to a certain degree, but Lexa may feel only pride – for _she_ is the one Clarke chooses to spend her time with, and that is nothing to scoff at; the feeling it arouses is warm, and it is _large_. It invades and consumes every thread which makes Lexa whole.

"No one's voting," Octavia whispers, combing the fingers of both hands through braided locks of dark brown hair.

Lexa considers the girl idly. She believes that if Octavia continues in her training, continues to master the ways of Lexa's people, she might one day be mistaken for Trigedakru. Octavia is dark, in physical appearance – her skin not so light as many of the other Skaikru, and her hair nearly as shaded as Indra's own. The emotion on her face is telling, now, but with more of Indra's counsel and guidance, Octavia may very well become skillful at masking such things from her countenance.

"Clarke predicted this outcome," Lexa shares, tone kept carefully unconcerned. "This distresses you, Octavia of the Sky?"

For Octavia was once quite vocal in her distrust of Clarke, and the Skai Prisa's decisions; Octavia has questioned Clarke more than most, and has not always emerged with the answers she'd been in search of.

Octavia pinches her features in concentration, and Lexa studies her with curious intent. She is uncertain of her feelings about Octavia, and may think only that such ambivalence finds source in her treatment of Clarke. It is unlike Lexa – and it is foreign – for her evaluation of others has never hinged upon another's claims of their character.

Still, despite Octavia's defiance of Clarke, Lexa finds herself withholding judgment. Failure to obey a leader is an offense which is never forgiven amongst Lexa's people, and yet she makes this exception for Octavia with nothing but Clarke's endless care and faith for her to support it. Lexa lies in wait, observing the young warrior's actions until the Commander may coincide what she has seen in the girl with the high praise Clarke lauds upon her.

"It does worry me, _Heda_ ," Octavia swallows thickly, then stands taller in the face of her insecurity, "but not for the reason you think."

"Do not presume to know my mind, Octavia," Lexa warns softly, for now that she has been halted in her mission to locate Clarke, she finds that she is interested in hearing the girl's words – but she will not allow more from Octavia than she would allow of any other of her warriors.

"Apologies, _Heda,_ " Octavia sighs gently, then shrugs. "I just meant that I know how this is going to end, and it's- it's not going to be good for Clarke."

Lexa weighs her head to the side, wordlessly requesting more information.

And it _is_ a request – a notion which is startling for Lexa in its concept – for the soft tenor of Octavia's words had breathed of more meaning than Lexa would expect if it were intended only to mean that Clarke's role as leader would continue.

Octavia sees little of how deeply that position affects Clarke, and so it would be relatively insignificant to Octavia that Clarke might keep it.

"Whatever relationship Clarke has with her mom," Octavia says slowly, then shakes her head, "is going to _die_ , after today. Abby's pride is going to crumble, _Heda_ , and when it does, it's going to be ugly. Abby hasn't made it a secret that she thinks Clarke's too young to lead, and while that might be true, Clarke's done more to keep us safe than any Chancellor ever did on the Ark. I know I've- had my doubts, _Heda_ ," Octavia bows her head in shame, and Lexa feels some measure of vindication pool in her stomach, for it is only just that Octavia may suffer for her cruel words in the same manner that Clarke has suffered for them, too, "but Clarke always does what's best for us.

"What happened at Tondc," she chokes, then swallows, and shakes her head once more, "was _terrible_. It was heartbreaking, and it was _wrong_ ," she hisses, but Lexa hears only the echo of Clarke's same words, the night of the same event Octavia speaks of, and it makes her teeth clench, "but _I_ was wrong, too. I shouldn't have criticized her so harshly. Rationally, I know that Clarke didn't have another choice," Octavia murmurs. "But, _Heda,_ " she insists quietly, "I wasn't _being_ rational, at the time. I was angry, and I was sad, and Clarke was the easiest to blame for that. It wasn't right, and it wasn't fair, but I did it anyway."

"Then you must bear the consequences," Lexa replies coolly. "Clarke has no need for your political views; she is capable of making decisions without your aid," she tells the girl harshly, and waits a moment until the self-disappointment has crept across the lines of Octavia's mouth before softening her tone, and her eyes. "She has need of your friendship," Lexa spares, for Octavia has been honest, and this earns some measure of reward; Lexa will offer it in kindness.

"Clarke- hasn't really been _friendly_ , lately," Octavia hesitates.

Lexa is mildly startled by this, for she has spent her evenings in Clarke's bed, but her days are largely overcome with the aftermath of Mount Weather; she has failed to notice any lack of interaction between Clarke and her people, though, bearing the knowledge now, Lexa may understand it.

"You say that Clarke's decisions have made you angry, in past," Lexa muses thoughtfully. "Sad," she remembers, nodding toward Octavia's expression, which has turned guilty once more. "Clarke is not unfeeling, _gona_ ," she lectures, a deceiving layer of indifference coloring her words. "She feels what she has done in every breath drawn to her lungs. The thoughtlessness of your words did not help," she says bitterly, then steels her jaw and calms when Octavia flinches violently at her Commander's vicious, evident displeasure, "but Clarke suffers for every being she has brought suffering upon, in turn. That does not end merely because she no longer has cause to fight; it is worsened.

"It is simpler to justify decisions made in times of stress. Though no other option was feasible for Tondc," Lexa rests her eyes for a moment, gently inhaling through her nose – for it was not _only_ Clarke's decision to let the village burn; it had, in fact, primarily been Lexa who had realized the necessity of it, "it is more difficult to conceive the desperation of such actions in the wake of victory. Clarke's heart is too pure to allow the consequences of those actions to pass without suffering.

"Your people revel in your newfound freedom," Lexa pauses briefly, ensuring that Octavia's attention is solely focused on this moment, and on Lexa's words, for there is nothing more important. "Clarke grieves for all that was sacrificed in order to gain it."


	9. Chapter 9

It should have been among Lexa's first thoughts to search for Clarke here; to search for her in the now-charred patch of forest where the Skai Prisa had first emerged as the leader of her people to begin with.

The sight of the dropship makes Lexa feel cold, in a manner which yawns out from her spine in an alarmingly radial pattern, eventually infecting both her limbs and mind; her heart chants a disconcertingly slow hymn that reverberates in the chasms of Lexa's chest, rendering her – for a moment – numb, and unacceptably inadequate.

For the duration of that moment, Lexa cannot breathe – for this was once Clarke's home, yes, but it, too, is the neglected battlefield upon which Lexa had once lost so many of her warriors to combat against the Skaikru.

The Skaikru – who have since become the bringers of _peace_ in Lexa's land.

For only a moment, Lexa grieves for all those lost to the heat of Clarke's fire; but in that same moment, Lexa is proud, and she is awed, and she is _grateful_.

The Commander is proud, for she has overcome much since her warriors fought here last, and she has granted a happiness to her people that has not been felt in times before. Lexa is awed, for not only has she brought this happiness to her people, Lexa has done so with the aid of the very Skaikru she once condemned.

Lexa had been able to deliver this happiness to her people only because _Clarke_ had relentlessly insisted upon an alliance – one which Lexa had then thought her people to be above – and for that, Lexa could not be more grateful.

Clarke does not think herself a leader, but Lexa knows this is untrue. Lexa has seen Clarke's instincts prevail, time and time again; she has seen the palace of Clarke's carefully guarded heart, and knows all that lives within it. There is not a single part of Clarke that was not finely crafted for leadership, for she is smart, and she is caring, and she is the embodiment of strength as Lexa has never known it – and Clarke will use each of those attributes to achieve whichever end she feels most just.

Lexa's people would not _have_ this happiness without Clarke, and Clarke's people would surely have perished many moons previous without her guidance and furious protection. No matter Clarke's self-doubt, the Skai Prisa has always acted in the interest of her people – and, whenever possible, she has, too, acted in the interest of Lexa's.

It strikes the Commander, then, that Clarke fears herself to be the harbinger of death – but she could not be more wrong.

Lexa believes only that she is the harbinger of _hope_.

She thinks this once more when she has at last found Clarke; it is Malloch whom she first encounters, and he indicates the Skai Prisa with only a silent, subtle incline of his head. Lexa nods her appreciation, following the lift of his chin.

The blonde's back is pressed firmly against the outdoor entrance of the ship, shoulders rigid and head lowered as the sunlight warms the soft color of her hair to gold. Clarke rests on the ground, booted feet digging sharply into the Earth at the heels, toes pointed toward the clouds. Her knees are bent, and her fingers lie tangled in the space of air between them, intermittently convulsing at pattern-less intervals.

Lexa has long believed it so, but she thinks, once more, that Clarke is nothing less than exquisite.

This pale, otherworldly creature–with stars in her smile and the whole of the sky she once named home caught in the baffling depths of her eyes–had once crashed to Earth and lit it aflame with war, only to soothe its wounds and bring it to life again.

How can Lexa watch this occur and believe Clarke to be anything _less_ than an icon of hope? How might Lexa now convince herself of anything else when she sees this strength – this _beauty_ – even now; even as Clarke shrinks into the long shadow of her ship, little more in this moment than a heap of foreign clothing and anxious limbs, swallowed by her own insecurity and fear?

Lexa cannot.

Clarke's strength, that _beauty_ – It is inherent; it is always there, no matter Clarke's emotional state. For Clarke may worry, and she may sadden, and she may _break_ , but she is strong, then, too; she is strong, for she bears the decisions she must make even knowing the way that her heart will grieve them.

Clarke knows what is best, and she will see it done – even at the sacrifice of her own peace.

There is hope in that.

There is _everything_ in that, and Lexa feels it, strumming through every neglected corner of her spirit and pulsing it with feelings so wide and deep that Lexa cannot help but move to her.

"Clarke," Lexa whispers, gracelessly falling to her knees near Clarke's left hip – for it is heartbreaking to see Clarke this way, and Lexa knows not how she may soothe it; Lexa knows only that she may stand to be nowhere else, and so it must be right that she is _here_.

The Skai Prisa's head lolls backward, a soft, tinny _thump_ sounding from the impact of her skull tapping against the outer walling of the ship.

"You shouldn't have come here," Clarke murmurs, shaking her head gently.

Lexa thinks that Clarke's eyes, somehow, reflect nearly too blue. They are less like sky, now, and more like water – light, at the surface, but darker – _deeper_ – for every step taken from the shore.

"If it is your wish for me to leave," Lexa vows earnestly, "then it will be done."

She makes this promise with honest intention, but Lexa knows that she will ache if this is what is asked of her. She will be of little use anywhere else; she may be useful only for Clarke, in this moment, for the emotion that so violently – so _devastatingly_ – erupts in Lexa's chest may be trusted with no other.

Clarke offers only a weak smile and a sigh. "I meant," she traces her tongue anxiously across her lips, "that I didn't mean for you to look for me here. I don't want you to be reminded of what I've done to hurt your people, Lexa," Clarke swallows, heavy lids hiding her eyes in shame.

Lexa knows this feeling from long ago, but it is not difficult to recall. It is guilt; it is pain, and it is _hurt._ Lexa feels it, but no longer does she feel it in this way. She has been desensitized; she has trained herself to allow the feeling only from a distance. It does not affect Lexa so potently as Clarke; it has not affected her this way since Costia.

For so long, she had anguished over her lover's end; for so long, Lexa had judged herself guilty and sentenced herself to a life of emptiness, heart fated to the same end.

Lexa has more than once told Clarke of the weakness which lives in love, but Lexa believes now that she must have been mistaken. For _Costia_ was a weakness, yes – the very best of them, Lexa remembers with a particularly painful knock of her heart against her breast – but Clarke cannot be the same.

Clarke cannot be the same, for Clarke offers her the strength that the Commander so reveres in her, and this may only fortify Lexa.

It is not rational that Clarke could be a weakness when she makes Lexa feel this _strong_.

"I know your sins, Clarke," Lexa tells her, voice steady, and firm, even above the comfort she, too, seeks to offer, for she will make certain that Clarke understands this. "I know your sins, and the heavy penance you suffer for them. I do not grant you forgiveness," Lexa murmurs, fingers reaching to kindly hook Clarke's jaw and raise it, thumb gently coaxing small shapes beneath her eyelids until she may once again spy that brilliant blue. "I do not grant it," she says softly, "for I am not the one you seek it from. You must forgive _yourself_ , Clarke. You must recognize this truth."

Clarke studies her carefully, eyes wide, palm curling around Lexa's own, still soothing soft paths across her cheek and temple.

" _How?"_ Clarke pleads earnestly, her cheek trapping one of Lexa's hands between the Skai Prisa's face and shoulder as she seeks more intimate contact.

Lexa rests her eyes in thought, for she is not sure that she may offer an answer to this, either, despite how deeply she wishes Clarke peace.

"It will come," Lexa swears, low and honest and trembling with care. "It is not simple, Clarke. It is not meant to be. But it will come, and you will one day thrive as you once did. Until that day," Lexa pauses, sighing softly and pushing her forehead gently into Clarke's in effort to soothe them both, "I may aid you in any manner you require. You are _strong_ , Clarke," Lexa tells her, conviction pouring from each word which breathes past her lips, "but if you wish it, I may be your strength when you feel you have none."

Clarke laughs, and it is hollow, and bitter, and it stirs a chilling ache in Lexa's chest – for how can the source of so much warmth produce this terrifyingly small sound that is so hauntingly _cold?_

"I take enough from you, Lexa," Clarke steels her jaw and swallows once more, averting her eyes down and to the left.

"You take nothing I do not willingly offer," Lexa snaps impatiently, effectively drawing Clarke's doe-eyes back into view of her own. "I give this comfort in show of my care for you, Clarke; I have no other purpose. Do not mistake this gift as something you have stolen, for you could steal nothing from me but my heart, and I have placed it in your care, already."

Clarke bites her lip, nodding slowly as her fingers shift, tickling around Lexa's wrist and loosely curling to hold her in place. The Skai Prisa's eyes are wide, searching and giving all at once, taking comfort in Lexa's touch and offering affection through her own.

"I promise I'll take care of it, Lexa," Clarke whispers finally, brows dipping in sincerity as a small, soft smile at last spreads across her mouth.

Lexa closes her eyes and breathes inward, for it is more effort than she sometimes believes it is worth to refrain from kissing Clarke. She is not ready – Lexa knows that she, still, is not yet ready, and Lexa will remain patient – but the knowledge of this relieves none of the desire that shrouds Lexa's heart.

Still, it is progress.

For Clarke is not well, but she does not keep it secret; not from Lexa. Clarke is _not_ well, and she is hurt, and she is suffering, but through that, she manages to soothe Lexa's foreign, needy emotions with this heartfelt promise.

Clarke will care for Lexa's heart, and she will keep it safe until Lexa may have Clarke's to replace it, in turn.

* * *

Lexa is not the only one who eventually thinks to find Clarke in the broken remains of the Skaikru's former home.

It is nearly sundown when the forty-three arrive, and they bring with them several of the Skaikru who had arrived later, on the Ark. Lexa is only just able to contain her fury – for, had she been in search of solitude, her people would not dare encroach upon it, once found.

Still, Lexa is startled when they arrive and say nothing, only padding too-heavy steps toward the Skai Prisa's position in Lexa's arms before promptly lowering themselves to the ground around her. Even then, they remain silent, and Lexa wonders how she has not seen them in such a state of quiet before. The Skaikru have always been too loud; Lexa's people value the worth of a word, and speak only when they have meaning to offer through them. The Skaikru speak _always_ , and at times it tries Lexa's patience. It is difficult to muddle through their speech in order to find _meaning_.

Yet, now, they do not speak at all.

When Octavia bravely props herself at Clarke's opposite side and takes her hand, squeezing it tightly and looking to Lexa with determination and worry and care in her eyes, Lexa understands, better.

The Skaikru are not here for words. They are here for the same reason Lexa finds herself in this place – to bring Clarke comfort.

There is nothing they might say to relieve her, but they may care for her in this silence only by being here and establishing their support. Clarke's people know not how she suffers, no, but they know that she _does_ suffer, and it pains them.

If this demonstration is not indicative of Clarke's value to her people, and their devotion in return, Lexa can think of nothing else that may prove it.

Lexa wonders if she should shift; if, perhaps, it might be most practical to remove herself from Clarke's desperate grasp in the view of so many foreign eyes. Still, as practical as it might be, Lexa cannot bring herself to move away. She cannot bring herself to deprive Clarke of this touch, when she asks for nothing else.

This is all that Lexa may offer her, and she refuses to rescind it; she has promised to be of use to Clarke in any manner the Skai Prisa needs, and if this is the way, Lexa will not balk. She will not falter, or even lean away. She may only hold Clarke closer, lips pressing against the top of her hair as the blonde's head falls exhaustedly upon her shoulder.

"We'll sleep here tonight," Clarke declares to her people as the light from the sun begins to drown beneath the tree line, a small croak in her voice as she raises it, though the silence deems the effort unnecessary. "Deal with the Election in the morning. Any objections?"

Lexa scoffs, for she can think of many – not the least of which being that the defenses of this place have been shattered and burned since the Skaikru stayed last.

Clarke snorts into her shoulder and snarks playfully, "I don't remember asking the Trigedakru, _Commander_."

"Quiet," Lexa orders affectionately, but distractedly – for if they are to remain here until sunrise, she must ensure that it is safe for them to do so. This place has not been used as a home for a decent measure of time, and it is unwise to believe in its security on faith alone. "Malloch," she calls.

The man steps from the cover of the woods silently, bowing his head in deference. "Yes, _Heda._ "

He is a large man – muscular, and tall, not unlike a bear. His eyes evaluate Clarke steadily, nodding at her weary, but more relaxed features, evidently satisfied by her progress. His shoulders are wide, his torso long; he is a good warrior – one of Lexa's best – and she is pleased with his self-appointed position at Clarke's side.

Soon, Lexa will make this arrangement more permanent.

"Scout the area. Down to the river and back. Make certain it is safe for us to stay the night," Lexa tells him tiredly, for she has done little but search for Clarke, but the emotional toll taken once the Skai Prisa had been found is far more taxing than her physical hunt had been.

Lexa is exhausted, and she knows Clarke must be drawing on reserved stores of energy, for she has hardly slept and has agonized the length of the day over what her future might hold. It is not an easy position for Clarke to be in, and Lexa wishes only to lull her to sleep.

"He did that already," Clarke murmurs into Lexa's heated neck.

Lexa raises her brow, curiosity itching through her fingertips, now winding through Clarke's hair as the blonde purrs her contentment, the sound vibrating along Lexa's strained throat.

"I like to think I've learned enough to know better than to trust my surroundings, Lexa," Clarke rolls her eyes.

Octavia nods her proud consent, but Lexa shakes her head and sighs.

"Yes, Clarke," she agrees. "You have learned this much, I know. Still, it is that you have ordered my warrior to a task which interests me."

"I didn't order him," Clarke frowns, grumbling. "I _asked_ him. And he agreed. I think, anyway. He mostly just stared at the ground and nodded, then he left to do it. He doesn't talk much, does he?" Clarke rambles sleepily.

Lexa says nothing, for she doubts that Malloch's head was lowered in anything but respect; soon, she will need to explain this custom to Clarke, for this is not the first time she will receive such earnest deference from the others of Lexa's clan, and it is best that she be aware of it.

Octavia blinks her surprise, parts her lips to speak, so Lexa glares at her with warning, and a softer edge which promises that _she_ will be the one to make Clarke understand this, but now is not the time.

Remarkably, the strong-willed warrior clenches her jaw and lowers her chin in answer, and Lexa may only nod her startled acceptance of the gesture – for Octavia _knows_ the meaning of this act, and she is offering this respect and gratitude for _Lexa_.

The Commander wonders, then, if perhaps Clarke's people might one day see her as the Trigedakru view Clarke.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. I need your help. Tumblr has eluded me many times in the past, because I just didn't get how to operate it and I didn't know what to search for, so, basically, I only ever managed to get there through random Facebook links. I think I've probably made, like, three different accounts at three different times, and I just could never grasp it. But I got a review the other night saying something about a prompt on the site, and so I went to check it out again. And then I typed in Clexa. And then I found the Clexa pick up lines. And then I found the Commander Heart Eyes tag (*absolute swoon*). And then, my life just... ended. Like, literally, it's over. There is so much stuff. I am overwhelmed. And I need your advice on how to proceed on my journey through the endless void that is Tumblr. So. Yeah. Please and thank you. : )
> 
> Also, I really hope you enjoy this chapter; it was hard for me to write all the emotions I was feeling/felt were necessary (:P), so I'd really like to know how you guys feel about it. Thanks!

The Skaikru obediently follow Lexa and Clarke through the forest back to Camp Jaha.

Their self-imposed silence had lasted through the night and on until morning, and Lexa is grateful for this previously unheard of blessing – but the pervasive brightness of the sun seems to have invaded more than just the tree line.

Clarke's people are vibrating with anxiety that is now evident in the light of day, overeager feet tripping along roots and stones hidden beneath the soft soil of the Earth, and Lexa does not understand _why_ , but this anxiety relieves itself by way of mouth.

Incessantly.

The Sky People simply… _chatter_. It is only noise, to Lexa, for the words they speak bear no relation to the Election they so worry over; their words bear relation to nothing, truthfully. Nothing Lexa might consider important, anyway.

The Sky People just… _speak_.

Lexa supposes that she should not allow even this mild degree of surprise, for she has acknowledged this irritating habit in the Skaikru many times in past, but now she is truly bothered by it.

For Clarke does not chatter.

Clarke does not speak at all, and it cannot be just that her people are granted reprieve from their worries – however small in measure – when Clarke is not gifted with the same.

Lexa may understand Clarke's quiet, yes, but she is still concerned; she wishes to soothe Clarke, but the Commander still has no reasonable method of doing so. She may only watch as Clarke's eyes harden and her shoulders stiffen, spine straightening taller and face growing rigid in preparation for what may soon come.

It is this which Lexa so admires in the blonde; this ability to craft strength and resilience from nothing but devoted diligence.

The change in Clarke both breaks Lexa's heart and heals it, too – for it is a terrible thing that Clarke feels such need for this fortified mask upon returning to her own _home_ , but it is a magnificent, _beautiful_ thing to observe.

It is watching the sun ascend over the Mountain from a distance, the warmth and freshness of the dawn somehow posing even that fouled, horrid bunker at its top in a deceivingly pleasing light; it is watching the rain as it comes toward, falling to the Earth first miles away, then merely meters, then only feet, until abruptly the patter of sinking water is pulsing all around with no end to the storm in sight, and no shelter in which to hide from it.

Clarke is both the sunrise and the storm, and Lexa cannot determine if she wishes more to bask in her warmth, or seek cover from the rain.

It matters little, Lexa decides, for she may only watch, either way.

Lexa may only watch as the resignation in the Skai Prisa gives way to relentless determination; may only watch as Clarke's eyes flare with the same fathomless, heated passion that Lexa had once gratefully felt upon her mouth – the same passion that had once been swallowed by Lexa's hungry flesh, twisting up her spine and making perch around it.

And it is magnificent, yes, but it, too, is terrifying.

For this is the version of Clarke who had so recently stood at Lexa's side on the eve of war, and how can it be right that it is Clarke's mother who has reawakened her this way?

"We are not far, now," Lexa murmurs quietly, palm stretched ahead of her path as she clears brush and twigs so that Clarke may pass unhindered by Nature's attempts to delay her.

"I know," Clarke nods.

Lexa ponders over this moment, for it feels important; it feels large, and heavy, and _significant_ in a way which Lexa cannot comprehend, but she feels it growing like weeds, rooted beneath her breast. Lexa may make no promise to Clarke that all will be well, for Lexa wishes it so, but she cannot know it will be done – and Lexa cannot allow untruths with Clarke.

Clarke has always been honest, and Lexa has been the same; they had survived war this way, and so it must be imperative that Lexa hold true to that principle now, as well.

There is little she can offer that has not already been said, but the Commander tries, for she cannot bear to allow Clarke this jaded sense of loneliness when there is an entire _nation_ following in her wake; an entire nation who has refused their governmental customs only to keep her as their leader, for it is she alone who carries their trust – just as it is she alone who carries Lexa's.

The Skai Prisa has no cause for loneliness, for she is surrounded by willing, loyal company.

"Clarke," Lexa calls softly, eyes only briefly flickering to the pack of Skaikru trailing several paces behind them.

"Yeah," Clarke sighs tiredly, eyes vaulting to search out Lexa's own.

"Your people care for you," Lexa begins firmly, brows furrowing with her own concentration – for this moment _is_ important, and Lexa will allow no flaw in her speech, "but they are not the only ones who do. No matter the outcome of this Election," she hesitates briefly, absently flipping aside a tree branch by bracing it along the bone of her forearm and shoving, maintaining the branch's bend until Clarke, too, has sneaked beyond its scraping limbs, "you are cared for by many, Clarke. In the event that it becomes necessary," Lexa purses her lips in preparation for the devoted, earnest proposition she next will offer, "you may find refuge among the Trigedakru.

"Your people care for you," Lexa repeats gently, fingers tapping lightly against Clarke's as they move forward, and Lexa is not entirely sure if it is intentional, but she cannot deny that it serves purpose, if for nothing but the tiny, self-conscious smile that Clarke presents her with in answer, "but mine care for you, also."

"That's…" Clarke swallows thickly, head ducking until her eyes meet only with the ground as she considers her words, before once more raising her chin. "That's very generous of you, Lexa. And it means a lot," Clarke nods, sky blue at last affixing onto Lexa's earnest green, and Lexa cannot help but to think that those eyes are so assuredly _full;_ full of gratitude, full of care, full of honest reverence which Lexa cannot find source in. "It means _everything,_ so don't think I'm not grateful," she vows. "But, Lexa… you know I couldn't leave my people like that," Clarke shakes her head, smiling sadly as her fingers ignore the fluttering game of accidental touches only to grasp shamelessly at Lexa's own.

Lexa's heart speeds its pace, but there is little that she may do to calm it, and Lexa is uncertain even if she might want to. This feeling– it is freeing, and it is light, but it, too, is constricting; it tightens in Lexa's chest and swims through her blood, and the desire she then feels is decidedly not light, but dark, and rather desperate.

It is only Clarke's palm, joining with her own, but, still, it is a touch.

It is _Clarke's_ touch, and Lexa is weak against that no matter which presumably innocent intentions Clarke may have.

Lexa _yearns_ for this touch – _craves it_ – and may only expel a quivering sigh from her lungs in reply, for now is hardly the time, but Lexa has had so very little control of her feelings since this blindly enchanting girl had crashed from the Sky that she spares little concern for its timing. It merely _is_. This feeling persists, always, in Clarke's presence – and at her touch, Lexa is helpless no matter the form in which it arrives.

"No," Lexa agrees. "You would not leave your people. _That_ ," Lexa says pointedly, chancing a small, satisfied glance at the Skai Prisa, who watches her keenly in anticipation, "is precisely why you are meant to lead them. Do not forget this feeling in your heart, Clarke, nor the emotion that burns now in your veins. You will fight for your people, as you have always done," Lexa declares firmly, stoically, honestly. "You will fight for them, because these are _your_ people; because, no matter your self-doubt, you know that it is best for them to follow your command above another's. You will fight for them because it is their safety and happiness which will otherwise be sacrificed, and no part of you will allow it," Lexa tells her, confidence breathing large measures of vigor into her words, supporting them with strength. "Do not forget this, Clarke," Lexa demands. "Do not _ever_ forget this."

Clarke pauses her steps, turns to face Lexa, evaluating; she says nothing for a long moment, and Lexa may only furrow her brows and stop in her path, too. Waiting.

Then, finally – thankfully _before_ the Skaikru catch up to their trail – Clarke swallows, and whispers, "Jesus. That was one hell of a motivational speech, Commander."

Her smile is small, but it is _true._

And though it is small, Lexa chuckles her relief, anyway – for she has gifted this moment to Clarke; _she_ has allowed Clarke her momentary reprieve.

Clarke's eyes shimmer with amusement and appreciation and sincerity, and Lexa thinks that miniscule curve of her luscious pink mouth could cure the world of sickness, for it is powerful and earnest, and it counteracts the furious drumming of Lexa's heart until it has stilled itself altogether.

* * *

"This is unacceptable."

Lexa hardly refrains from rolling her eyes skyward, but it is only through focused effort that they remain centered ahead.

Abby's indignation is apparent, for these are the first words to escape her lips after Clarke and Lexa have led the Skaikru back to their camp. There had been no concern for Clarke's safety, nor for the safety of the people Abby now fights to lead. There had been nothing before this furious declaration, and it swiftly sets Lexa's teeth on edge.

Her fingers itch toward the dagger at her belt, for Lexa has beheld the fierce determination which lives in Clarke, and if her mother's might match it, then a fight may soon be had.

Lexa will not allow Clarke to be harmed in this insolent – and hugely ineffective – display of power which Abby had never truly even harnessed to begin with.

"You issued a vote," Clarke sighs, hands tucking faux-casually into the back pockets of her worn blue pants. "Our people obviously didn't appreciate the position that you put them in. You can't blame them for that, Mom," Clarke says softly, shaking her head.

And perhaps it is not _rational_ to blame them, but it is clear to Lexa that – ignorantly – Abby _does._

"Clarke," Abby huffs irately, palms planting upon her hips in stubbornness, "this is a _democracy_. There are _rules_. It is the duty of the people to submit a vote!"

The Skai Prisa releases a quiet noise of unhidden frustration, before she snaps tiredly, "The entire _purpose_ of a democracy is that the people have the right to offer their opinions. Our people have no duty to vote for you, nor for Kane, if they think that neither of you are capable of protecting them. It's their duty to vote for a leader they feel will keep them _safe;_ it is their duty to vote for a leader who will act in their best interest, no matter the cost.

" _That_ is the purpose of an Election. The people get to _choose_ who they want in office," Clarke steams, words hot and chorusing with fury. "You have _stolen_ that from them," Clarke hisses angrily, eyebrows fusing together as though she understands that this is exactly what her mother has done, but the purpose for it continues to elude her. "You called for this election because you knew I couldn't contend for the position, and you _did that_ ," Clarke snarls, "because you knew I would _win;_ because you _knew_ that they would keep me in charge if given any sort of _actual choice._ You have abused the system of government that was put in place to allow them their freedom, and you have done it for nothing but your own selfishness."

Lexa burns with pride, and it is fueled only by venerated awe – for Clarke is a monumental force, in this moment, made of harsh truths and violent recrimination, aimed with the sole focus of diffusing this farce.

And Clarke, now, is the Skai Prisa whom Lexa's people have given title to, brought to life once more.

"You are too _young_ for this, Clarke," Abby barks impatiently, as though the rising volume of her voice alone could be enough to cower Clarke's strength; it is a foolish effort, for such a thing cannot be done, Lexa knows – and certainly not only for the sake of the mother's ire – but even the execution of such a flawed plan drowns Lexa in unrivaled _hate_. " _Look_ at you!" Abby screeches, the sound grating at Lexa's sensitive ears until she may only scowl her displeasure and idly consider driving her sword through Abby's heart. "Your father would be _ashamed_ , Clarke. _Look at what you've done!_ "

And it is this which convinces Lexa that her sword is, indeed, her mightiest option – so she draws it, feet planting offensively as her left arm reaches through the air in front of Clarke's chest in a vain effort to keep her back.

Clarke allows none of it.

The Skai Prisa shoves Lexa's arm from her path, stepping brazenly toe-to-toe with her mother as she spits in her face, "Don't you _dare_ talk to me about Dad. You have _no_ right," she rumbles furiously. "I _know_ what I have done, and if you think that I'm proud of it, then you don't know me as well as you still seem to think. I am _not_ proud, and I am _heartbroken_ , and I am _tired_ , but that doesn't mean I get to just _stop_. It doesn't mean that I get to quit, and say, 'I tried my best,' because our _people_ still need a _leader;_ our _people_ still need homes, and food, and _security._ Our _people_ still need _help_ , Mom, and instead of trying to give them that, you are creating even more problems and instability among _ourselves_ when we don't need _any of it._

"They've just fought in a _war,_ " Clarke seethes, nose nearly brushing with her mother's own, and Lexa may only tighten her fingers around the hilt of her blade – for Clarke is far too close, and Lexa is far too uncomfortable with the knowledge that Abby could easily strike Clarke before Lexa could feasibly move in time to prevent it. " _They_ are tired. _They_ are heartbroken. And all they want," Clarke frowns, voice softening into some form of plea that is evident, yes, but rather unclear, to Lexa, "is to be _happy_. All they want is a place that they can call home, now that ours has fallen.

"Why do you _care_ who leads them there? Why does it even _matter_?" Clarke whispers, exhaustedly shaking her head. "All that matters is that they get to have it."

Lexa swallows once, then again, for her heart has leapt into her throat and now refuses to budge, no matter how frequently the muscles of Lexa's throat convulse to work it down once more.

For Clarke's words are heartfelt and true, and Lexa feels the echo of the Skai Prisa's sincerity inflate in her own chest.

There is nothing that the Commander would not offer for the safety and contentment of her own people, and that part of Lexa feels every emotion behind Clarke's speech as though it is being carried personally from Clarke's spirit directly into Lexa's own. It is overwhelming – to both understand and to _be_ _understood_ in this way – and for a moment, Lexa can think on nothing else.

It is only Clarke – Clarke's strength, and Clarke's power, and Clarke's _words_ , reaching through Lexa's heart and whispering soft promises of total comprehension and care. And it, too, is only Lexa – Lexa's weakness in her knees, and her matching power, and her decided _lack_ of words, folding beneath the Commander's tongue in effort not to publically profess the devotion which now consumes her heart and her mind and the whole of her soul.


	11. Chapter 11

The silence which follows the brazenness of Clarke's speech is uncomfortable, at best, but Lexa hardly spares the quiet notice of any kind. She is far too concerned with Clarke; with the vehement rise and fall of her heaving chest, and the blistering emotion in her eyes, boring through her mother's stubbornness with nothing less than pure determination.

Lexa may think only that the Skai Prisa is stunning.

For Clarke is wild, in this moment. It is entirely untamed protectiveness which lights this fire in her spirit; protectiveness for her people, and their rights, and their _choices._

It is remarkable, to Lexa, for she knows this fire – has _felt it_ guiding devastation all through her own veins – and it is fierce, yes, but Clarke handles it with more mastery than Lexa has ever felt able to manage in past.

For, in Lexa, that heat manifests more as ice than fire; it turns cold. Calculating. It stills her hand and steadies the blade she wields within it, pushing, pushing, until a perfect arc slices through whichever threat she fears bears potential to upset the careful balance her people have achieved.

But Clarke is not the same, in this.

Clarke's heat reveals itself in passion before it even considers stirring in violence; Clarke's heat festers, simmers, _boils_ in her blood until it scalds her lips and tongue in motion.

Her heat, too, will turn cold (and _lethal_ ), given adequate motivation – Lexa knows that Clarke is capable, despite how frequently the Skai Prisa may wish not to be – but it does not reach Clarke in the same manner as Lexa. The coldness, the _stillness_ – it reaches Clarke only after her initial flame has first rendered every feasible other option to ash.

Lexa may only be pleased, for _Clarke's_ sake, and for Clarke's sake _only,_ that the Skai Prisa yet has options left to burn for this Election – for no matter the measure of coldness which will someday, again, chill Clarke's spirit, the Skai Prisa could never forgive herself such a dark crime in this instance; Clarke would never forgive herself if her position as leader meant the execution of her mother by her own order, even if only to protect the security of her people.

Still, the Commander knows that had her position been challenged in this way, no matter who the perpetrator, the disloyal vermin would lie still and cold – irrefutably lifeless – at her feet by nightfall. She _aches_ to perform this act in Clarke's stead, for Abby is conceited and blind, and Lexa wholly believes that she deserves none of the consideration which Clarke now spares for her.

"We need to agree," Clarke sighs, eventually, conceding only half a step's worth of air for her mother's winded lungs to recuperate.

"We will not agree on this," Abby laughs cynically. "I've told you already – you are too _young_ , and I cannot support you in this, Clarke. I understand that you care for them, but that doesn't mean – "

Lexa scoffs.

She has prepared no words to follow it, but the eyes of the Skaikru instantly fall upon her in expectance, and Clarke's eyes find hers in that same moment – wide and surprised, and curious, too – so Lexa speaks the words of her heart before her mind is given chance to plan their order.

"You understand nothing," Lexa tells Abby coldly, for cold is the only way Lexa may feel when it is Clarke's mother who is making claim to the total comprehension which only Lexa may rationally – _proudly_ – share with Clarke; it is Clarke's mother who drips lies off her tongue like drool from the mouths of wolves when the scent of blood has been tracked and the meat, at last, gnashed between the edges of their sharpened, bloody teeth, and Lexa may find nothing in this acceptable. "You understand _nothing_ of Clarke's devotion to her people, for you do not share in it."

"Don't you _dare_ tell me that I don't care for my people," Abby growls, shuffling forward. "That is _hardly_ your place," she decides, some worthless measure of threat crawling beneath her tone as she continues to step toward Lexa.

The Commander's knuckles ripple and whiten along the hilt of her blade, but she has no need of it; Clarke's palm meets with her mother's shoulder, gripping firmly and holding her in place with features lined in stern, unyielding refusal. The muscles of the Skai Prisa's jaw flex beneath the grinding of her teeth, her eyes fierce, and fixed with warning.

And, abruptly, it is no longer Clarke's people for whom her fire burns.

This– It is for nothing but _Lexa's_ safety.

Lexa has no need for her defense, for she wishes nothing more than that Abby might advance upon her if only so that Lexa may have just cause to gut her, at last.

Still, the significance of this moment stands; this is raw instinct, in Clarke. It is not that Clarke has made the _decision_ to shield Lexa from her mother – it is that Clarke had moved before the _in_ decision had even been offered sufficient time to reach into the consciousness of her mind.

Clarke had only _reacted_ , and her reaction had been to protect Lexa.

It is with the powerfully warming, proud feeling incurred by this action that Lexa forms her reply, for she may think of little outside of Clarke, and – perhaps only for this once – it is actually beneficial, for Lexa, that the Skai Prisa so easily stakes claim to her thoughts.

"Your ignorance benefits no one," Lexa straightens her spine and glares. "It can be nothing but ego which might enforce your belief that your care for these people exceeds Clarke's own, and it is _evident,_ " she scoffs, "that your ego knows nothing of reality," she determines caustically, eyeing Abby with both disgust and hate in equal parts. "You have done nothing for them since your arrival but worsen already dire circumstances. I should have no need to remind you of all that _Clarke_ has given for them," she snarls pointedly.

"It is she whom they trust, for it is she who has offered them reason to invest such trust within her. Clarke has _earned_ the loyalty of your people, whereas you have earned _nothing_. Today, your people have been presented with not only one alternative to Clarke, but two – and still they have concluded that _Clarke_ is best to lead them.

"They have chosen _correctly,_ " Lexa announces, voice climbing as though it is to her own people whom she speaks, offering her support and encouragement before anything else. "Clarke is best because she cares; because she will give what no other might _think_ to offer, if it means the happiness of her people. It is unthinkable and cruel that you might strip your people of that happiness for nothing but your own foolishness, and it demonstrates only that it is not their interests which you concern yourself with.

"You thoughtlessly concern yourself with Clarke, and your concerns are misguided. Clarke's age matters little in her ability to lead; it is in her actions that she is defined, and her actions have named her the Sky Princess," Lexa finishes stoically, eyes firmly holding to Abby's despite the rage which burns within them.

"You can't – "

"She _can_ ," Lexa hears, and cants her head in mild curiosity when she spies the shadow of Bellamy as he surges through the gathered Skaikru around them to stand at Clarke's side. "She can say whatever the hell she wants," Bellamy glares, shoulders bearing wider under the keen watch of so many anxious stares. "She's _right_ ," he declares solidly. "The Commander already _is_ a leader – and from what I can tell, she's a pretty damn good one," he says honestly. "And she recognizes _Clarke_ as our Chancellor, because Clarke is the only one who has _acted like it._

"Clarke has fought for our survival since the day we arrived on the ground," he preaches, strong and booming, to the throngs of his eagerly attentive audience. "She fought for our survival in the forest, she fought for our survival when the Grounders were still a threat – no offense," he turns hurriedly to Lexa, who may only raise her brow and briefly roll her shoulder to indicate that such a thing could hardly be cause for offense, now, with all the favorable outcomes that have since resulted, "and she fought with _everything she has_ when our people were trapped inside of Mount Weather.

"You may not _like_ that she's in charge," he says, now, turning to Abby with that hard, demeaning look flaring to life in his eyes, once more, "but we won't let anyone else take that from her," he scowls, folding his arms across his chest. "The Commander," he pauses, finding the eyes of the Skaikru in the crowd and meeting them with softening, dark ones in turn, "is _right_. Clarke has _proven_ herself a leader. We _let_ her become that," he says solemnly. "If anything, we _made her_ become that," he whispers, though it carries far enough to stir discomfort in his people, as their feet shuffle in silent admission of their guilt. "We chose our leader already," Bellamy announces clearly, shifting his hips and his gaze to search out Abby, once more.

"We chose _Clarke_ ," Bellamy tells her harshly, unbending.

Lexa feels the tickle of a smile, and promptly bites down upon it – for it is inspiring that Bellamy has crafted this defense for Clarke, yes, but Lexa may make only so many exceptions for these soft expressions of face.

Clarke may be the _only_ exception.

Still, Lexa may appreciate Bellamy's devotion, and his unfaltering loyalty, and she is pleased – for both Clarke's sake and her own – that he has made use of the high regard the Skaikru have for him to act in the Skai Prisa's favor.

* * *

It is not long after Lexa and Bellamy's joint advocation that the Skaikru begin to grow restless.

Lexa finds she cannot blame them, for even she tires of the redundancy in this Election and its surrounding concerns. Still, the Skaikru do not leave. They wait only in uncomfortable position around them, bearing the silence upon stiff shoulders.

"Look," Clarke huffs eventually, "you're right," she tells her mother.

Lexa reflexively scowls, for Clarke's mother has been right in _nothing_ , to Lexa's knowledge, and even the implication otherwise seems wrong. Still, this conclusion falls from Clarke's tongue, and Lexa recognizes that it therefore must have meaning.

"I _am_ young, and I don't always know what I'm doing," Clarke confesses, though her posture does not suffer for the admission – only grows taller; _stronger_. "I'm not prepared for this, Mom – but _neither are you_ ," she insists quietly. "Nothing on the Ground is the way we imagined it, and the rules have _changed_. If today's Election didn't prove that to you, then I don't know what will. Things are _different_. Make peace with that," Clarke tells her, "or don't. I don't care," she frowns, and shakes her head sadly. "But I'm not going to let you drive our people into trouble just because you're unwilling to compromise on _anything_."

And it is true – every word of it – for Clarke's people would not have survived this long following the laws of the Ark, from what little Lexa knows of them. And it is true, too, that Abby's obstinacy reduces her ability to negotiate to nothing; the woman will not sacrifice humanity, or pride, or her deluded position of leadership. She will not sacrifice her rules to observe those of Lexa's people.

She will compromise on _nothing_ , and no leader may achieve all that they desire without first offering something of themselves in payment.

"These are _my_ people, and I'm honestly beyond finding any sort of agreement with you, Mom. I don't _need_ your support," Clarke tells her truthfully. "Our people have already _decided_ who will lead them, and I'm sorry, but your opinion doesn't actually _matter_ , anymore. I'm not wasting any more time fighting to make you understand when you aren't even willing to have an honest discussion with me," Clarke sighs heavily, shrugging her shoulders in defeat – which Lexa finds purely aweing, for Clarke has _won_ this battle, and, still, she worries for the mother she has thwarted.

Lexa may only follow her in silence as she quietly excuses herself and leaves for her tent, her people standing proud and floored in her powerful wake.

For Clarke is strong, and she may now 'officially' claim leadership of her people – but this notion is as beneficial as it is damaging, for Clarke, and Lexa knows that when she finds Clarke in her bed, the Skai Prisa will cast those soft, sad oceanic eyes at Lexa and will beg for her physical comfort.

Lexa will be sure that she is there to offer it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a couple of projects coming up next week, so I'm going to be a bit tied up with those, but I'll try to get an update out on Monday if I can. This chapter's a little annoying for me, because, at this point, I'm so fed up with Abby that even writing for her is a chore - but I hope I did well with it, anyway. Let me know, please. : )


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kind of proud of this chapter, because I feel like I was able to execute it in a way that matches pretty closely with how I saw it in my head. Clarke ran a little further in this one than I originally intended, but I like where it ended up. Let me know if you agree. : )

In the days that follow, Clarke moves as a machine.

The Skai Prisa wakes at dawn, if not before, and pads silently from her tent as though Lexa does not stir each time her cherished warmth has vacated the Commander's side. Clarke is often absent until high noon, and Lexa knows not where she might find herself for the duration of the time between, but Lexa, too, knows better than to ask.

Clarke requires time, and Lexa will not be the one to deprive her of it.

When Clarke returns, she is – as ever – the leader her people have elected that she become. The muscles of her shoulders spread rigid with responsibility and tension, her mind calculating and fierce and primarily centered on the mechanics of Earthen politics. Clarke inquires often of the Twelve Clans, and Lexa endeavors to provide answers where she is able.

She tells Clarke of the Ice Nation, and of the very tentative truce bonded between them and the Trigedakru in the wake of their own war, only three summers past. Lexa tells the Skai Prisa of the Boat People, and of their clan leader – Luna – who is a dear friend, to Lexa. She tells Clarke of the Sea Nation, and how it is a miracle that they have come to be a part of the Alliance at all, for they are a proud and solitary people who require little from other clans but occasional ports at which they may be permitted to resupply their sea-bound ships. Lexa tells Clarke of the Marsh People to the south, and of their closely associated brethren to the west, who Lexa names the Autumn Foragers – for it is only in the cooler months that they evacuate the Marshes so that they might collect the plant life from the Earth after the monsoon season has passed, but before the winter snows may bury the foliage beneath.

Clarke listens eagerly, shifting forward with elbows balanced against the caps of her knees, absorbing each of Lexa's words and chewing them over with contemplative nods or the occasional further inquiry.

Lexa is pleased – and she is _proud_ – for Clarke's interest, for it will soon become necessary for this information to be in Clarke's possession. Lexa has not yet mentioned the meeting of the Coalition, for no date has yet been determined for it, and Clarke has more than enough to worry herself with before she must bear the weight of this, too; still, it is simpler that Clarke has asked, for it will now be significantly less overwhelming for the blonde when it does become a concern.

The Commander is not certain, for she does not dare broach such a matter with the Skai Prisa so soon, but she believes Clarke suspects such a meeting might occur, and she is preparing herself for the task.

Still, this is not all that she and Clarke discuss.

Despite their negotiated strategy for the Mountain Men's execution, there are details which must be planned for, too. The list of names Clarke has provided offers the lives of approximately half of the Mountain Survivors to the mercy of Lexa's blade, but Clarke has determined that there must be a method.

Lexa believes that she understands – though she does not wholly agree – for Clarke's people will only just tolerate their deaths to begin with, and even this allowance will weigh much doubt and hesitation upon the hearts of the Skaikru; Clarke's people will not allow the torture the Trigedakru will demand before the subsequent deaths of the Mountain Men.

The Commander is not certain how she may deny her people the vengeance that they have both fought for and earned the right to claim.

When she tells Clarke of this, Clarke sighs, and lowers her head in thought, fingers tapping anxiously against her thigh. Lexa watches – _admires_ – the way that the Skai Prisa's teeth coax her lower lip between them; admires the deepening blue of her eyes as they merge with the fog wrought by her concentration.

Lexa has spent much time observing Clarke – more in recent days than ever in past – and she is tempted regularly by the Skai Prisa's charm. Clarke is sad, yes – she is heartbroken, and weary, and she is _damaged_ , too – but this matters little in Lexa's attraction to her, in fact may only increase it. For Clarke is beautiful in this sadness, too; she is beautiful in the constantly fluctuating shades of her eyes, and in the searching reach of her fingers in the darkness, tangling between Lexa's own for comfort she may not find within herself, only in Lexa's undemanding embrace.

Lexa remains flattered to have been chosen for this task, and she regards this duty to Clarke with the utmost sincerity and importance.

When Clarke speaks, finally, it is only just in time – for Lexa is mildly startled to find that she has already shuffled a foot forward in effort to liberate that pinkened lower lip from the possession of Clarke's teeth only to claim it between her own, and Lexa _knows better_.

Clarke is not ready.

Lexa must continue to be patient, no matter how difficult she may find such a task.

"I can give your people justice, Lexa," Clarke offers quietly. "I can give them the lives of those who have stolen what was not theirs to take," she whispers. "But I won't give them torture," she resolves. "My people won't allow that, and neither will I," she determines softly, eyes firm, but pleading, too – pleading that Lexa may understand her reasoning, even if, perhaps, she will not mold her mind to match it. "It was wrong, what they did to your people," Clarke nods sincerely. "It was _wrong_ , Lexa, and it shouldn't be forgotten _or_ forgiven. I know that.

"But to the Mountain Men, your people – _my people_ ," she chokes, swallowing through the pain of this not-so-distant memory, "were nothing but medical advances. We were like- _plants_ , pulled from the Earth to heal them, and our lives were worth nothing more than that. The blood of your people healed their own, and the marrow of mine could bring them life on the Ground. We were a means to an end. That's _all_ we were, Lexa," Clarke murmurs. "They might not have _cared_ that their actions were cruel, but they didn't do it just for that purpose; they tortured your people, and they tortured mine, but that wasn't their intent. They just wanted to survive, and to prosper.

"I can give your people justice," Clarke repeats quietly, head lowering as though she cannot bear to face the reality of denying Lexa that which she desires, and Lexa's heart at once both soars and aches for the consideration Clarke's grants for her, "and I will do that because it is what they deserve – but I can't just let you torture them. They will die at your hand, and at the hands of your people," Clarke nods gently, gathering courage enough to raise her chin and meet Lexa's eyes once more. " _That_ is their punishment. They have stolen life from your people, and will have theirs stolen in turn. That has to be enough, Lexa. _Both_ of our clans have seen enough of blood and war. I will not allow more than is strictly necessary for peace."

Lexa hears this – _understands it_ – and vows that she will try. For Clarke, she will try – for Clarke has done everything in her power to ensure that Lexa's people are gifted this much, at least, and she may understand that Clarke's people will falter if there is even a trickle of blood more than is required in this execution.

Clarke has only just been sanctioned as their leader, and the dealings with the Mountain Men will become her first true decision in this capacity; it must be handled with care, for Clarke's position, now, is new – at least to the Skaikru who had followed them to Earth from the Ark – and her position thus lies on tumultuous ground. Lexa is not oblivious to that, and she will take care to provide no more resistance than Clarke will already be met with.

* * *

When, two days later, their decision has been finalized, Lexa treks the path to the Mountain at sunrise with her people in tow and Clarke at her side. A small number of Skaikru accompany them, though Lexa suspects that it is largely in support of Clarke. Still, there are few – mostly those who had so recently been trapped within the Mountain's painful captivity – who bear hatred in their eyes and lustful glee in their eager steps forward.

Lexa will not blame them for their enthusiasm, for she understands that they, too, seek the same justice her warrior's march to possess.

It is no surprise that Clarke is not among them.

The blonde's steps are heavy, her muscles tight, and each time her shaking fingertips reach for Lexa's, they swiftly withdraw and curl upon themselves, instead, as though the Skai Prisa believes that she does not, in this moment, _deserve_ the relief she finds in Lexa's touch.

Lexa says nothing, and does not force her palm into Clarke's no matter how strongly the desire to do so thrums through her blood. She cannot offer Clarke the absolution she so yearns for, but later – when the sun has lowered on this gruesome day, and its events have only just become a thing of the past – Lexa may offer Clarke her silence, and her understanding, and Lexa will hope that it might be enough to sate the Skai Prisa's grief; to stave it off, only for tonight, so that Clarke might allow herself only a portion of the rest she has lately failed to find, and so desperately requires.

Their arrival to the Mountaintop is heralded with silence, and the abrupt stilling of marching feet. They shuffle through the still-broken door of the bunker's entrance, Lexa's warriors cramming through with impatience, but respectfully allowing the Skaikru to shove among them, too, only in Clarke and Lexa's wake.

Once they have penetrated the walls, Clarke orders the one introduced to Lexa as Monty toward the PA system, where it has been agreed that he will announce their arrival to all of the Mountain Survivors stationed on the fifth floor.

When Lexa first spies them, she is only briefly torn – for she knows what these people have done, and she knows that the blood which now courses through their trembling bodies is not entirely their own, but life should never be stripped lightly.

Lexa is sad for them – sad that this is the end they must meet; sad that they likely had never conceived that this is what their carelessness might lead to. She is sad for the families she will break, and she is sad for the spirits she will set free in violence.

Still, this punishment is not only for justice, or for vengeance. For Clarke, this punishment is naught but a warning – however fierce and unforgiving; it is a warning to those who they will allow to survive that they will not tolerate such a thing to ever occur again. Even in this, Clarke fights for the survival of her people; she fights for their continued freedom, for she has the insight to look far enough that she might see this disaster repeating over itself in years to come.

Clarke's mother did not understand, but Lexa surely does.

And so it is with this thought that Lexa fortifies her mind and steadies her palm; it is _Clarke's_ claim she holds to her heart, and not the justice and vengeance of her own, for while Lexa allows this to occur for the sake of her people, it has never brought Lexa joy to thieve a life.

Perhaps it is _fair_ for their lives to be thieved, but it is difficult to remember it when faced with the wide, terrified eyes of the Mountain Children, and the fear which shakes through the builds of their families.

It is not difficult, however, to remember what they have _done_ , and it is not difficult to remember that they must provide reason for the Mountain Men to never commit such acts again. Justice and vengeance are important to her people, and they are unmistakably important to Lexa, also, but the notion of Clarke's warning – of the _message_ she intends to provide– is wildly helpful in aiding Lexa to achieve it.

Lexa's warriors ignore the terror which surrounds them, each one searching out the faces of the convicted guilty which they recognize by the folders presented to them prior to their march. They say nothing, and Lexa knows not what she might say in their stead, though she gathers her strength to craft a speech which she has little will to deliver.

But it is not necessary, for Clarke relieves her of this chore, too.

"I'm sure that all of you are scared," she begins softly, tiredly. "I'm sure that you're worried, and that you're afraid, and I'm sorry for it – but you are _right_ to feel that way. Many of you probably believe that we are here to kill you all," she declares loudly, and Lexa may only watch as her audience shifts and gasps and holds tight to their children in alarm. "You might be surprised to learn that we are not. But we will kill some," Clarke steels her jaw and presses her teeth together, patiently waiting as her words filter through the Mountain Survivor's ears, and comprehension sinks within their minds.

"We are here for different reasons," Clarke weathers on once they have quieted. "The Trigedakru – the people outside of these walls whose blood you have allowed to be taken for _decades_ ," she glowers threateningly, daring even a sound in defense to emerge from the crowd, "want revenge; more than that, though, they want what they are _owed._ They want the blood in your veins returned to them, because it was never yours to take.

"That is what _they_ want, and they are not wrong to desire it. Some of my people want that, too, and I won't blame any of them for it. But that is not why _I_ am here," she announces loudly, penetrating the soft murmurs that begin to arise, silencing them once more with the power of her words alone. Lexa swallows, and swallows once more, for she almost cannot bear the beauty of Clarke's strength in this moment when she knows how it will destroy her, tonight.

" _I_ am here because you have all become so accustomed to this treatment of outsiders that you never even bothered to question the morality of it. That is _not_ okay," Clarke growls heatedly. " _I_ am here to make sure that you understand what you have done, and to ensure that you will _never_ commit another crime as hateful and selfish as this again.

"You might believe that this is unnecessary, and you might believe that it is also spiteful – and you might be right," she confesses to them earnestly. "But I can't take any chances with the safety of my people. You have stolen Trigedakru blood for as long as they can remember, and you have turned their people into _monsters_. You have used the Reapers _you created,_ and you turned them against their own people, so that you can take _more_ of the blood that does not belong to you. You have _tortured_ them. You tortured _my_ people, and for something that you didn't even need to _survive._ That is unforgivable," Clarke snarls, eyes flaming with her fury even as blunt nails dig into the soft flesh of her palms to relieve it. "You might have adjusted to this treatment throughout your lives in this Mountain, and you might have ignored it altogether – but that is unacceptable. Today, you will acknowledge what you and your people have done, and you will commit the _consequences_ of your disregard and ignorance to memory. You will never forget this day," Clarke vows solemnly. " _That_ is why I'm here.

"What is happening here today," Clarke declares, eyes bravely – so very bravely – meeting with the frightened orbs of the Mountain Survivors which stare back at her in horror, "is _wrong_. Taking a life," she inhales sharply, then straightens her spine and widens her shoulders in a blatant display of courage which Lexa may only stand in pure awe of, "will _always_ be wrong," she declares resolutely. "But, today," she begins again, softly, "it is what is right for _my_ people, _and_ for the Trigedakru. And I will not show you kindness when you have spared us none of the same.

"You will never forget this day," Clarke tells them again, her voice hardly a whisper which every being in the room stills to hear, "and that is the _point_. You will remember the sadness, and the devastation, and you will remember your own helplessness – and you will remember that this was brought upon you only because of your _own_ cruelty toward _us_. You will remember what you have done every day for the rest of your lives, just as we will remember, _every day,_ what you have done _to_ us. However spiteful you believe us to be, you will remember that you are the _cause_ for that spitefulness."

And for her first recognized declaration as a leader, Clarke sets a high standard for herself – for her own people blink, and they stare, and even nod agreement to this decision which they had previously been so very wary of, and Lexa's people, too, release their prisoners – if only momentarily – to fall to their knees before her, swords drawn and pointed toward the floor beneath, foreheads nearly touching their hilts.

Lexa may only follow their lead – only this once – for her heart drums dramatically against her breast as though these words from Clarke's lips have been breathed directly from the heavens, themselves; as though they are all to have ever existed in the world, despite that their speaker had only so recently crashed upon it.

The Commander, too, sinks to her knees, sword drawn, but not pointed – blade and hilt cradled in each of her palms as an offering to the Skai Prisa made only in _devotion_ , and in _reverence_ , and in unprecedented, all-consuming _love_.


	13. Chapter 13

When Lexa finds Clarke, the blonde is silent, and she is alone.

Her eyes are rimmed in lamented red, and thin, glittering, somehow achingly beautiful trails of tears mar the delicate, rounded planes of her cheeks with sorrow so deeply rooted that Lexa doubts the blonde has even realized the grieving of her eyes. The Skai Prisa is stiff, and she is still, and she looks upon the burning piles of dead bodies accrued on the Mountaintop as though it is her own spirit which now burns with them.

Lexa understands, for her blade had felled more than one of Mountain Dead, and her own heart aches for what they have done. It had been the _just_ course of action, Lexa knows this – but the knowledge relieves little of the sickened feeling which now makes perch in the depths of her stomach.

"Clarke," the Commander calls for her, though Lexa does so gently in sincere effort not to startle her.

For the sun will soon set, and Lexa has already ordered her warriors to lead the Skaikru back to their camp. The bodies will burn at these pyres for much of the night, and it is not practical that they should remain; Lexa has sent her people home to the comfort of their families, and she has perhaps taken liberty in sending Clarke's to the same, as well, but the Skai Prisa had been lifelessly cold for the whole of the execution, and her people had adamantly refused to leave her without strict order to do so.

Thus, Clarke is _alone_ , at the peak of this Mountain, and Lexa will not leave her this way.

She cannot.

"We do what we must, Clarke," Lexa sighs tiredly, when she receives no immediate reply from the blonde she so carefully watches over. "You have done this in defense of your people," she swallows, for her speech is strong, but her heart, in this moment, is not. She believes the words which she relays to Clarke, but she, too, must remind herself of them, tonight, lest she be consumed by the same guilt which now so furiously festers in the Skai Prisa's gut. "You have protected them. Do not let your grief overshadow that."

Clarke's shoulders tremble as she shifts her hips to find Lexa, at last, so that Lexa might see more than only the shaded profile of her face; so that Lexa might wholly view the misery which has taken residence in her eyes, and the heated anger which flickers to life behind them, too.

" _Stop_ ," Clarke demands firmly, voice strained, but unmistakably clear. "Lexa, just- I get it, okay?" Clarke huffs, aggravation coloring the edges of her words and marking the discontinued pattern of them. "I get it. They deserved this, and it needed to be done; I _know._ I wouldn't have agreed to this plan if it wasn't the best option for our people," she releases a quivering breath of air which catches painfully across her trembling mouth. "But it still isn't right," she whispers as her head shakes, "and it is still _sad_ , Lexa," she insists quietly, eyes lowering to find the ground beneath her feet, only three short steps from Lexa's own.

"It is sad," Lexa agrees, voice thick and stifled. "But we have done only what was required of us."

"No," Clarke contends swiftly, head snapping upward and eyes flaming with the passion Lexa so reveres in her.

"No?" Lexa queries, brow lined with wrinkles of confusion.

Lexa is already weak, in this moment, and her resistance is failing. Her heart aches for Clarke's touch, every cell of her body joining in an echoing, devastating plea that she might search out the Skai Prisa's affections – for she has always offered this comfort to Clarke, and has seen the relieving effects of it, but so rarely has Lexa felt need of it herself.

The Commander is unused to such things, but she recognizes the desire instantly, for it is a feeling which she knows in her heart, even if, perhaps, her mind might find it foreign.

"No," Clarke replies stoically. "We did what we felt was right to ensure our people's safety, but there is no guarantee that the Mountain Men wouldn't have changed, Lexa. It's doubtful that they would, but they could have. We just- we couldn't be sure," she shakes her head, as though she is convincing herself of this, too; Lexa's heart and mind both ache in concert, for Clarke's words are honest and true, and they quaver with the Skai Prisa's sincerity. "We decided this was best _,_ because we couldn't ignore such a huge potential threat hanging over our heads. We did this so that our people could feel _safe_ , Lexa – but it was not _required_ of us. We could have waited; could have left all of this to chance. But we didn't. We _chose_ this," Clarke breathes painfully. "We did this preemptively, and we have to live with that. It was a choice, and I still _have_ to believe that it was the right one, Lexa, but we don't get to make ourselves feel better by saying we had no other option, because we _did._ Those people are _dead_ ," Clarke chokes, swallows, then sinks her shoulders in defeat. " _We_ did that. And I don't need comfort from you right now; I don't deserve it."

Lexa remains silent, for she may only argue so much against Clarke's reason when she feels the truth of it whisper through her own veins as a morbid, reluctant caress which drowns her heart in its suffocating hold.

Clarke advances upon her, then, clearing the three steps spared between them with long, determined strides. Lexa feels the heat of her stare, feels the trembling heat of her body, too, and instantly – _instinctively –_ Lexa recedes.

For her heart is too frozen to bear such vicious warmth, and surely it will crack and shatter against her ribs when matched with Clarke's flame; so Lexa withdraws, feet stumbling beneath her frame as it falls backward, for this heat in Clarke is wild, and uncontrolled, and the fact that it is Clarke's only makes it more dangerous, for Lexa; more _potent_.

Still, as Lexa retreats, Clarke follows.

The Skai Prisa prowls forward until Lexa has cornered herself against the roughened bark of a mighty pine, and the Commander is startled to find herself there, but she is more startled by Clarke's sheer _proximity_. For this princess of the sky braces an arm behind Lexa's head, where the Commander's hair mats uncomfortably against the tree, but Lexa cannot care.

Lexa can scarcely catch breath to her lungs with Clarke so devastatingly close, those blue eyes, now, neither water nor sky, but a murky grey steel which bends and shifts and glows in the embers of the fire which blisters beneath.

"You keep trying to support me, Lexa," Clarke says quickly, earnestly, breaths warm and threateningly soft as they cover Lexa's cheek and make her _ache_ , "and it's sweet – and I am so _grateful_ to you for that," Clarke insists quietly.

Lexa may only swallow, for she knows of Clarke's gratitude, already, but her eyes, now, show more of it than Lexa has ever known. The Skai Prisa is urgent, in this moment, and she is so very persuasive, for Lexa can _feel_ the thanks Clarke wishes upon her as it warms the cold organ in her chest.

It is not as painful as she might have thought; not immediately, at least. For her heart _is_ frozen, but Clarke's fire does not crack it right away. Clarke's fire warms, and warms, so that the Commander's heart does not shatter so much as it melts, slowly, and the look in Clarke's eye – the earnestness of her expression – releases the emotion so carefully kept chilled within it until, moments later, Lexa may keep them subdued no longer.

It is then when it becomes painful. Blindingly so.

Lexa has banished such emotion for precisely this reason, and it is un _just_ that Clarke may now stir it to life with so few words and so little touch to coax it from her.

"I take more comfort in you than in anything else, and I haven't made that a secret," Clarke whispers, features sure, even as her free hand rises to cradle Lexa's jaw between soft, soothing fingers, which miraculously do not tremble. Lexa's palms do, though – the fingers of one curled around her own thigh, and the nails of the other carving into the trunk of the tree which digs into the flesh of her back. "But sometimes, Lexa, I just need to _feel it_ ," Clarke tells her, voice hardly a whisper – hardly a sound at all – but so close, still, that Lexa may hear these words with little invested effort of any kind. "I just need to be _angry_ , and _I_ need to feel the consequences of everything I've done, too – because even if I've done _all of this_ for my people," she sighs exhaustedly, fingers still smoothing gently against Lexa's chin, "I've still been the one to make these decisions, and my choices have ended _so many_ lives.

"The lives I have _chosen_ to sacrifice _deserve_ to be remembered, Lexa. You might think that's weakness," Clarke nods, swallows, as though she has accepted any measure of disappointment Lexa might feel toward her, for this, and though it pains her greatly, she may not allow her feelings to be dismissed, regardless, "and you might be right – but if I can't spare their lives, I can at least spare them my thoughts."

"It _is_ weakness, Clarke," Lexa confirms, her own voice strict, and firm, for emotion now clouds the passage of her throat, and her eyes feel suspiciously – _unforgivably –_ wet, and nothing in this moment is acceptable. "And it is a useless one, at that. There is nothing to be done for our choices, now, and I would not change any we have made in past. We have acted in the interest of our peoples. This grief you allow is natural, Clarke," Lexa tells her honestly, "but do not mistake it for doubt. It is _only_ weakness."

"Then it's a weakness I'm not strong enough to hide," Clarke snaps reflexively, frame quaking with fury and grief and unbridled destruction, fingers cinching tighter around Lexa's jaw until the Commander is certain that her flesh will bruise beneath her touch.

Lexa swallows, once more, for she is choked, and she reprimands Clarke for the same grief which resonates through every trembling limb of her own body, too; she, now, is the hypocrite – but Clarke does not lie. The Skai Prisa speaks only truth, and it is a truth which Lexa may feel burning through her own heart, too.

But she shakes her head, anyway, and dedicatedly ignores the tears that pass through the fluttering lashes of her eyes with no semblance of permission from Lexa's will. "You are the only weakness I may spare, Clarke."

"Then be weak because _I_ am weak," Clarke growls. "Be weak, Lexa – just for this moment. Just with me," she pleads, the greyness of her eyes shifting like clouds being rocked through the skies with the wind until there is only blue left behind; only the sacred, pure blue of the brilliant summer sky at noon, made bluer by the tears which pool beneath them in sympathy of Lexa's own. "Be weak with me," Clarke begs again.

"I can't do that, Clarke," Lexa insists, though her voice is as weak as the Commander feels.

Clarkes shakes her head and smiles thinly, sadly, "But you already are, Lexa."

Lexa stiffens, and glowers, and snarls fiercely, "I am _not_."

For she _is_ , but Clarke may not know it. Lexa cannot provide comfort to the Skai Prisa when she, too, is in need of it; she cannot be the strength she has promised to offer Clarke when she has none in her possession to offer.

"Then why are you crying?" Clarke murmurs quietly.

Lexa shakes, and she shakes more, until Clarke's opposite hand, too, meets with her face, gently cradling her neck as she soothes the Commander with soft, cooing sounds which draw only one, harsh, unrelenting sob from Lexa's heaving chest.

Clarke catches it with her mouth.

It is hardly the romantic brush of lips which Lexa has so desperately wished for in recent weeks, but it is all that she needs in this moment; it is all that her heart has searched for since the start of this day, and all that Lexa had not known to seek.

It is hard, and nothing like the tentative exploration of their previous kiss. Emotion rages in this touch of mouths, where before it had peeked timidly through frightened fingers and nervous lips.

Clarke's mouth blazes across her own, melding against Lexa's lips, fusing her passion and her grief and her desire to Lexa's own. Lexa may only continue to shake; may only sketch her mouth against Clarke's and steal from it only more of the same pain which ricochets through her own blood, finding another kind of comfort in this that the Commander had not known could exist.

It is the comfort of _sharing_ this emotion – for Clarke believes that they do not deserve comfort, and perhaps she is right, but they still may grieve for those lost by sharing that grief between them.

And so Lexa raises her hands and carves her nails, instead, into the flesh of Clarke's hips, dragging the Skai Prisa closer to her until this grief, and this pain, and this simultaneous relief is _all_ that she may feel; she drags Clarke closer, closer, until the Skai Prisa's shape merges into her own – until they are inseparable by sight and by touch.

Her tongue searches desperately for Clarke's own, and Clarke's fingers around her chin tighten somehow further when Lexa's teeth scrape her lower lip, primal, and needy. Clarke gasps – a tiny, startled thing which weighs in Lexa's stomach – and shifts her hips closer, grinding absently into Lexa's own before she abruptly withdraws.

The Skai Prisa pants softly, and Lexa may only echo it back at her, for she is overwhelmed and hurt and ecstatic, all at once, and she knows not which feeling might best be addressed first.

"You can't be strong," Clarke whispers, lips brushing delicately against the shell of Lexa's ear before they press soothingly across it, and Lexa's breath may only stagger in reply, "if you don't remind yourself of how it feels to be _weak_."

The Commander nods, and Lexa swallows, once more, for she is not certain that the meaning of this will quite reach the clouded comprehension of her mind, now, but she recognizes that Clarke's words carry weight, and significance, and are not to be ignored.

In this moment, however, it matters little – for Clarke's fingertips slacken against her jaw and move only to caress gentle paths down her neck with care, and reverence, and absolute patience as she waits for breath to find Lexa's lungs, once more. Lexa may only blink the salted moisture from her eyes until it spawns from them no longer, and Clarke stands before her in devoted anticipation, sweeping them from Lexa's cheek with a careful thumb which does not linger over the infernal tears, only swipes each one away before a soft, tender kiss is pleated in its place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so... Maybe it's not the WAY you wanted it, but... that's still what you've been waiting for, right? : )


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too much dialogue in this one, but I was shamelessly unprepared to let this moment pass without exploring some of Lexa's long-hidden emotions, so... this happened. Hope you enjoy.

Clarke has been blunt with her.

She has made it remarkably, abundantly clear to Lexa that she believes herself unworthy of comfort, and Lexa thinks that the Skai Prisa, in this moment – _in every moment, always_ , though she allows herself to accept it often – truly believes in that, despite how inclined Lexa might feel to disagree.

It swiftly becomes clear, however, that – by some definition-less double standard which Lexa cannot begin to fathom – Clarke counterintuitively does not believe the same to be true of Lexa.

For the Skai Prisa will not allow herself to be held, but when the pair collapses tiredly against the trunk of the tree which Lexa had only so recently sought refuge against, Clarke cautiously and freely folds Lexa into her arms, a single palm rising to urge the Commander's leaking face against the plane of her chest.

Lexa does not understand how this works – understands nothing of the world, or of the frantic pacing of her heart, and certainly claims no knowledge to the inner workings of Clarke Griffin, in this moment – but she is weary, and her eyes feel sore in a manner that the Commander has not allowed for in many years, and she cannot bring herself to worry for it.

Lexa chooses to believe that Clarke must derive some measure of comfort in this, too, for Lexa cannot deny that she feels some of the same when gifted with the permission to cradle Clarke in her protective hold.

Still, this feeling is alien, to Lexa, for she has held Clarke many nights, and once had held Costia in the same, devoted manner, too – but she has never before _been_ truly held. Not since she had been small, before the call of her spirit to the throne; before her mother and her father had relinquished her to the care of warriors more suited for her necessary training.

There had been moments, with Costia – gleaming, shattered memories now so very distant and blurry to Lexa's mind, shrouded as they are by that daunting black veil of pain, and of suffering, and of wild hurt and crushing guilt – during which her former lover had stroked playful fingers along the line of the Commander's spine in the quiet of her tent, late in the night when the moon had been high and the heat of summer nearly too stifling to even withstand such intimate contact.

Still, those moments compare little to the one she now finds herself consumed by.

For Clarke is not playful, and nothing in this moment is light. This moment is darker than any Lexa might have shared with Costia in past; this moment is comfort, yes, but it, too, is pain. It is the suffering which makes the comfort necessary, but it is a suffering which is not only Lexa's own.

The notion is dislikable, to Lexa, but it is telling, also.

Lexa had hidden such realities from Costia whenever she had found herself able, for Costia had been brave, and overeager, too; she had been a good warrior, and a quick one, but never one of Lexa's best. She had been humorous, and _free,_ and she had lacked a sense of long-term strategy, always more invested in the hunt than in the careful planning which had led to it. Costia had been all that Lexa had never been afforded the opportunity to become – her opposite in every way – and Lexa had moved entire worlds to be sure that Costia's bravery and ambition would not end in her demise.

The Commander had succeeded, if only in that; she had prevented Costia from learning of many of the agonizing decisions she had been responsible for in the war against the Ice Nation. It had been difficult – exceedingly so, for Costia, too, had been curious and stubborn and far too inquisitive – but Lexa had wanted only for her safety. Lexa had protected her, when she could – though it had mattered little, for Lexa had not been able to protect Costia when it had mattered most.

It is this which makes Lexa's feelings for Clarke so powerful, the Commander is sure.

For Clarke is not only aware of the decisions Lexa has made, but Clarke, too, has shared in them. She has offered as much of herself to these choices as Lexa has. There is no sheltering Clarke from this pain, as the Commander had done for Costia; Clarke lives in it as surely as Lexa does, and it is heartbreaking, and Lexa wishes that it did not have to be so – but it is still only truth.

There is understanding between them which Lexa cannot claim with any other, nor can she claim to have experienced it in past. They are linked through responsibility, through devotion to their peoples; they are bonded through devastation, and through this comfort which they now trade equally between them.

They are connected through the decision they have made today, and through all of the others which had come before it.

Lexa's heart is in tatters, flayed pieces of flesh which float like ashes between her ribs; she is nostalgic, and bitter, and she, too, is in hurt. Still, it is soothed – if only mildly – by the careful, tender scrape of Clarke's nails through her hair, and her breath is evened by the steady, too-hard pulse of Clarke's heart beneath the flesh of her cheek; she is soothed by Clarke's presence, solid and warm and tired and _aching,_ but nevertheless here, devoted only to guiding Lexa through this strange and destructive catharsis.

"My dad used to tell me about the Earth," Clarke whispers – whispers, for the air is still and silent around them; the smoke has relieved them of the nasty, winged creatures which leave itches on the flesh, and the commotion they had stirred throughout the day has sent the beasts of the wood into hiding.

There is nothing but silence to cushion their misery; nothing but silence, and crackling fire, and the scent of burning flesh and burning wood and burning hearts to offer lightness to their words, and this only makes them heavier. Every word is important; large, and weighing, and each one of Clarke's drips like honey through Lexa's ears, bathing her heart in thick, sappy substance which only seals the gaping wounds scored upon it, but does not heal them.

They cannot be healed, Lexa knows, but the Skai Prisa– she makes the devastation of this emotion feel tolerable; makes it feel as though Lexa may feel something else among it, too. The Skai Prisa reminds Lexa, in every moment she draws breath, that amidst the Commander's guilt, and her heartbreak, and her all-consuming _grief_ , that Lexa, too, can _love_.

Lexa can love _Clarke._

"Just stories," the blonde murmurs into her hair, sighing warmly against it, and Lexa only burrows her cheek further over Clarke's shirt.

Lexa is beyond weakness, in this moment, for she is drowning in it – and Clarke _knows_ – and this contact with Clarke is all that allows Lexa to continue to breathe.

She seeks more of it; Lexa seeks as much of Clarke's touch as she is able, in this moment, for Clarke will require the same, likely in the near future, and Lexa will be stronger when she tries, once more, to tender it.

"Just… wishes," Clarke inhales softly.

The Commander cannot see it, but she imagines Clarke's eyes falling shut as she feels the Skai Prisa's jaw tuck over top of her head.

"He used to tell me about the birds, and the grass, and the trees," Clarke remembers quietly. "He used to tell me about the water. We could see it, you know; the Earth, and all of that _blue_ ," Clarke breathes reverently, "but even the water still looked so small, and somehow we never had enough of it.

"Dad used to tell me about rivers, and lakes, and oceans, and how he imagined it would feel. He said- he said he thought it would be like living; he said that maybe we need to forget what it means to breathe, sometimes, and just- let ourselves remember how it feels to be powerless. The water is big – but it never looked that way, from space," Clarke tells her carefully. "Dad said the oceans could swallow the Ark whole and still have room for more, and I know he was right, but from space…" Clarke trails off, and shakes her head softly, chin mussing the braided locks of Lexa's hair, but the Commander cares little, for she is riveted in this moment, and in Clarke's words, and she hardly spares the small indignity notice. "From space, the whole Earth looked so small. So _simple_ ," she chokes painfully.

"Nothing may be as simple as it appears, Clarke," Lexa rasps, disquieted by the scraping tenor of her own voice.

"I know," Clarke nods. "I know, Lexa; that's the point. Nothing is small, anymore," she says softly. "The Earth is big, and the universe is bigger, and all we can do is survive it. All we can do is _live_ , and remind ourselves that we _do_ have power – but only a little. Only some," Clarke says gently, still strumming through Lexa's hair and curling her opposite palm over the covered flesh of Lexa's hip, where she squeezes, and Lexa _burns_. "We can control our own decisions, Lexa – but we can't control the world. And that- that makes it important," Clarke swallows, and Lexa can feel it, though she is not sure how; Clarke's jaw moves against her hair, and her neck only minutely angles itself to the side, but, still, Lexa knows it is a swallow which causes it. "That makes it important for us to make the _right_ decisions. We're given these choices because the world can't make them on its own, and we have to do everything we can for it, and for the people who live _in it_. This is your _home_ , Lexa," Clarke murmurs profoundly, "and now it's ours, too. We have to take care of it."

Lexa nods – profusely – for she is weak, and insufficient, and her heart still batters cripplingly against the walls of her chest, but she hears these words as though they are her own. She is the Commander, and she has always been made aware of the importance of a decision, but Clarke makes it _bigger_ ; Clarke makes these decisions not only for her own people, nor solely for Lexa's, but for everyone who shares this Earth and names it home.

Clarke wishes for the world to be safe; wishes that they can _keep it_ safe, when they are given chance to make it so.

The Commander vows she will do all in her power to remember this moment, and this heartfelt speech, for it is a view that should be adopted by more than a girl who had only so recently felt the Earth beneath her feet and the freshness of natural air to her lungs. It is idealistic, and is far easier in notion than it may ever be in practice, Lexa knows, but Clarke is not wrong.

The Earth is theirs to love and protect, and it is their _home_ ; they take from it what they need and they offer it thanks, but they, too, destroy it with war and fire. They have scorched the dead upon its face, and have dug graves into its flesh.

They have tarnished the Earth with bodies which Nature has only ever sought to give life to.

Perhaps she is drowning further in her grief, but it matters little. Lexa has remembered, now, the value of saving a life instead of stripping one, and though she believes that their actions today had been inevitable and necessary and _right_ , she, too, may better understand the ache which has made home in Clarke.

For it is difficult to believe so wholly in both notions at once; it is difficult to believe that life is sacred and, too, believe that it is often the _just_ course of action to slay half of a surviving race, despite it.

Lexa understands the shadows of Clarke's heart, and the dimming shimmer of her eyes, for she, now, shares in this, too. The emotion, the _truth_ of this singes through her veins and trembles in her fingers, where they curl desperately through the soft hem of Clarke's shirt at her stomach. Lexa's lungs shatter beneath the overwhelming, conquering weight of a sob, for she now _truly_ understands, and she aches for every moment she had, in past, denied this emotion its liberty.

The Commander breaks, and breaks, and breaks, and Clarke only strums quivering fingers through her brown hair and waits, gentle kisses dotting the crown of her head and her temples and her shoulders.

"The world is big," Clarke says again, soft and trembling. "But we are small, Lexa. Sometimes- sometimes I think we're just _so small_ ," she sighs, cheek pressing to Lexa's hair. "How can every move I make feel _this_ important, when we are still _so small?"_ Clarke wonders breathily, hurt weakening the strength of her voice and drawing it through Lexa's ear with a shaky breath which makes her quake in sympathy.

Lexa may only sob once more, for she does not know and does not understand, and this confusion which marks the lines of Clarke's brow takes residence, too, upon her own.

For how may Clarke believe herself to be small when the emotion Lexa feels for her is the grandest thing she has ever known?


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, guys, just as a heads up, chapters in the coming month or so will likely be slow. I've got finals fast approaching, and a couple of term papers due shortly, so I have to redirect my focus toward that. I'll do the best I can, try not to be too disappointed in me. I tried to make this chapter a little longer to tide you over until the next update, so let me know what you think, please.

When they return to Camp Jaha, it is dark, and it is blissfully quiet. The air, here, is still, too – just as it had been upon the Mountain, with only she and Clarke to break the silence. Here, though, it is not the absence of insects and beasts which Lexa first notes, but the pure silence of the Skaikru.

Most have retired to their beds for the night, likely exhausted, and haunted, too – just as Lexa, and just as Clarke.

There are few left loitering around the camp, for which Lexa may only be grateful.

Clarke had paused their journey home to guide Lexa to a trickling stream, where the Commander had splashed cold, revitalizing water across her face, war paint and tears mingling with blood in the water which had not been her own, washing the evidence of the day's devastation down the river. Clarke had taken the Commander's face in her palms, delicately rubbing her thumbs beneath Lexa's eyes, catching each smudge of missed war paint in her hands before pulling Lexa close and pressing her soft mouth into Lexa's once more.

Lexa may not help the sob which follows, for her heart is tender and her emotions raw, still, but Clarke shushes her and only begins the cleansing process once more when she has again calmed Lexa's fraying nerves. For a moment, the Commander cannot look at Clarke – for she is not shamed by her feelings, in this moment, but she is overwhelmed by them, and it is nearly too much to bear the echo of that sensitivity in Clarke. Clarke only folds her lips across Lexa's cheek and smiles grimly, but tenderly, too, before taking the Commander's hand and helping her up from the riverbank.

Still, Lexa's eyes are sore and her cheeks feel flushed, and she may only be thankful that Clarke's people are not congregated any place they might bear witness to it.

The Skai Prisa says nothing more of Lexa's aching heart, only coils her warmth around the Commander's spine once they have found the comfort of Clarke's tent, once more, fingers sneaking beneath thin clothing only for the sake of brushing indulgent, miniscule touches across Lexa's flesh. To Lexa, it feels as though Clarke's fingers pull the harshest edges of this grief to the surface, each stroke of her attentive caress rounding off the pieces of this grief until it is something Lexa might bear on her own.

It is soothing, yes, but Lexa may only accept Clarke's touch with awe in her eyes and reverence in her returning touches, too, for there is no thanks large enough for what Clarke has done for her, this night; there may be no words grand enough to express Lexa's unfailing gratitude, nor the affectionate emotion which festers and broils and simmers through her chest and stomach, shaking through her fingers as they feather upon Clarke's skin.

There is only night around them for long hours. They do not sleep, for Clarke surely cannot, and Lexa is frightened of what she might dream, should she allow herself to fall victim to such things. She has not felt this emotion in so very long, but, still, the Commander remembers the horrors which had found her in sleep in the days following Costia's death, and she is not eager to experience them again.

It is in the early hours before dawn when the air shifts, and Clarke tenses at the change as swiftly as Lexa does, too.

The noise is hardly loud; the soft clomping of ambling horse hooves is rather soothing to Lexa, truthfully – but the fact remains that it is night, and Lexa has not ordered any of her warriors to a task which might justify this interruption. Clarke's people are still stunned by the horses, and – Lexa believes – perhaps a bit fearful of them, too, and so it may not be the Skaikru who create this sound.

Lexa cinches her fingers around Clarke's wrist when the Skai Prisa turns to her, and the Commander shakes her head only slightly, indicating a request for silence which Clarke obediently adheres to with an accepting nod. Lexa sneaks from the bed and quietly slips her armor into place, for if there is danger, she will enter into it prepared.

Clarke pulls her gun from a small table to the side of her bed as Lexa's fingers ripple along the hilt of her sword. Lexa still understands little of the machine's mechanics, but she understands that the intentionally muffled clicks emerging from behind her are the sounds of Clarke loading bullets to her weapon.

Lexa nods her approval of Clarke's caution and lifts the flap of the tent, peeking through the small slit created in effort to spy the cause for the disturbance. She sighs heavily, for the rider she sets eyes upon is not one she is familiar with, but he is escorted through the camp with Indra on foot, reins in hand as she leads the rider's steed. Lexa's general halts their journey a fair distance from Clarke's tent, barking at the rider to wait.

The Commander's eyes find Malloch quickly, hidden in the shadows of Octavia's nearby tent; the warrior nods his awareness, and Lexa nods her appreciation in return.

The rider wears armor suited for the Boat People, but Lexa will take no risks with Clarke's safety. The Trigedakru have seen impersonators in past, and Lexa has played that con before; it is not difficult to slay a single warrior if only to strip them of their armor and wear it as one's own.

" _Heda_ ," Indra bows her head as she approaches.

Lexa inclines her head, allowing her general permission to speak.

"The Boat People send word to the Skaikru," Indra frowns, some measure of curiosity coloring her words, even beneath the suspicion which seeks to bury it. "The rider claims to carry a message for Skai Prisa."

Lexa shifts her eyes to the rider and evaluates him with dubious intent. If this correspondence is designed for Clarke, Lexa has no true reason to be present for its delivery. She does not doubt that Clarke will share its contents, nor that she will ask advice of Lexa regarding her reply – but it is not mandatory that she be in the room as it occurs. It is an unsettling thought, for if she is asked to leave, Clarke will be left with a stranger whose purpose here Lexa cannot yet identify.

Clarke pushes forward, despite Lexa's building worry, and motions to the rider with a tired flap of her hand.

"You have a message for me?" Clarke asks, brows furrowed both in wariness and confusion.

The rider frowns. "I carry message for Skai Prisa," he tells her in broken English.

Lexa is not surprised. Luna's clan has largely strayed just out of the Mountain Men's reach, and so they have little need for the Skaikru's language. Still, Lexa knows that many of the Boat People's warriors are well-versed in English, if only so that they might understand other clans who might seek to use the language as a means to communicate secrets between them. Luna's riders customarily travel alone, though, and traditionally through the night, as they rarely travel through the trees and are not so adept at masking their presence among them. It is safer for their riders to know little of English in the event of capture when delivering any message of import.

Clarke nods, then swipes her tongue across her lips, tucking her gun into the belt of her pants before replying, "Then you'd better go ahead and deliver it."

" _Klok kom Skaikru_ is the Skai Prisa you seek," Indra growls threateningly, as though the implication otherwise is sin.

Lexa agrees that it must be, for no other may hold Clarke's title and serve it adequate justice. Clarke's title is Clarke's alone; it is not the same as Lexa's, in this, for once the Commander has passed, her spirit will choose her successor, and another _Heda_ will be called upon to lead their people.

'Skai Prisa' is fitted _only_ for Clarke; there may be no other who will follow. Other leaders will take over in her passing, yes – but they will be Chancellor, or Council, or General. There will _be_ no other Sky Princess.

"Deliver your message, rider," Lexa orders firmly, effectively drowning any doubt he might have had for Clarke's true identity.

The Boat People are closely allied with the Trigedakru; if the Commander confirms that Clarke is the girl he has been ordered to find, then Clarke must be as Lexa has named her.

The rider nods, withdrawing a folded paper from the confines of his armor and extending it to Clarke from atop his brown mare. Clarke accepts it, sliding determined fingers beneath the wax which seals the envelope shut. She pulls the letter out and sharply inhales, but says nothing as her eyes continue to scan its length.

Lexa itches to inquire of its contents, but there is no need, for Clarke shoves the letter against her chest as she contemplatively eyes the rider who had carried it.

"The Ark crashed months ago," Clarke grits her teeth and frowns. "Why are you only telling me this now?"

The Commander eyes the letter thoughtfully, and she sighs. It is Luna's print, and Luna's signature, capped with Luna's seal, and so it must be truth, for Luna would not lie; Luna knows of the Trigedakru's alliance with Clarke's people, and she would not cross Lexa in such a manner. That matter aside, Luna would have no reason to do so, for the Skaikru have offered the Boat People no threat. They would have no need to lure the Skaikru to their village with lies.

Lexa understands Clarke's budding fury, for if this letter is to be believed, the Boat People have been keeping more surviving members of the Ark in captivity.

Clarke is not wrong; the Ark had fallen weeks before, and so it comes as little surprise to Lexa that Clarke is angry for the sake of her people. They have been separated from the rest, and are likely frightened of their new lives on Earth – which has most probably not been aided by the fact that they have since turned prisoner to Luna's people.

"We do not approach near Mountain," the rider gruffs quietly. "But now it falls. Passage is safe," he declares succinctly. " _Beha Catain_ sends word when Mountain Men die."

Lexa watches as the Skai Prisa murmurs the words beneath her breath. " _Beha Catain_ ," she whispers, neck arching slightly as her eyes seek out the shadows, for reason Lexa cannot entertain. "Captain," she nods contemplatively. "Shore Captain?" She inquires a moment later, brows fused in her curiosity.

The Commander nods and smiles with brimming affection, though she hides it as she shifts her hips to face only Clarke. The Skai Prisa is learning Lexa's language; Lexa has little idea how, for she has taught Clarke nothing more than a few words when asked, but Clarke has correctly translated Luna's title independent of Lexa's aid, and the Commander is proud, and she is awed, and she, once more, is endlessly flattered by Clarke's evident effort to assimilate amongst her people.

It is gratifying that Clarke should believe this to be important, for she may communicate with Lexa's warriors satisfactorily in English – yet, still, the Skai Prisa learns this, anyway, in effort to better understand and accommodate the Trigedakru.

Lexa has heard tell of Seven Wonders which once graced the Earth with beauty and startling magnificence, but she is sure, now, that Clarke must make the Eighth.

Clarke turns her head down and to the left, nodding to the ground with eyes which bounce back and forth with no external force to focus upon.

"Is it customary to ask permission when visiting another clan?" Clarke asks Lexa, fingers reaching for the letter once more, if only to provide her twitching digits with a surface to restlessly stroke upon.

Lexa lifts her chin in thought, before pensively replying, "Under normal circumstances, perhaps – but I believe that Luna is expecting you. It is not by mistake that this rider has been sent to us so speedily in the wake of the Mountain Execution. She likely has no desire to keep your people from you any longer than she must."

Clarke nods again, before turning to the rider, strictly declaring, "Tell the _Beha Catain_ that I'll leave tomorrow. I'll be accompanied by some of my people," Clarke tells him slowly, in effort to aid him in comprehension. "Only a couple of my warriors and a general or two. Tell your leader to expect that, okay?"

The rider nods his confirmation. "I will bring message to _Beha Catain_ ," he tells her, then raises the reins of his horse in preparation to turn back toward the path from which he'd come. "Safe travels," he bids, heels digging into his horse's sides as it begins a soft trot through Camp Jaha's exit.

"Thank you, Indra," Clarke says earnestly, shifting to face Lexa's dark-skinned general. "I appreciate that you took him here. I know it's late."

Indra bows her head, shakes it, then replies, "I will aid the Skai Prisa however it is needed."

Lexa believes that Indra means that, and though she understands the weight of her people's affection for Clarke, it is no less aweing to her to witness it each time.

"Well, thank you, anyway," Clarke says sincerely, palm stretching to curl gratefully around the general's shoulder. "Goodnight, Indra."

Indra merely lowers her head once more in answer, moving to return to their village at Clarke's apparent dismissal of her services.

Lexa swallows, for she has a growing, burning desire to accompany Clarke on this first visit with another clan, but Lexa knows not how to request that such accompaniment might be allowed. She does not doubt Clarke's capabilities, yet, still, she finds herself disquieted by the notion that Clarke might choose to travel alone.

Once more, however, Clarke deprives Lexa of the anguish of searching for her words, for the Skai Prisa turns to Lexa, sighs, and pushes her forehead against the Commander's, murmuring softly, "I know that you're busy, and that you're still rebuilding Tondc," she inhales deeply and rests her eyes, fingers reaching to cradle Lexa's neck and smooth anxiously across it. "I know I shouldn't ask, but, Lexa, I'm going to anyway; will you come? You've taught me a lot about the Boat People, and I'm sure I could manage on my own, but I'd- I think I'd feel safer if you were there," she whispers shamefully, eyes still masked by the lids which close over them.

"I would be honored to escort you," Lexa vows earnestly. "And soothed by the chance," she confesses softly, as Clarke's eyes reopen and peer curiously in search of explanation. "You face little danger from Luna's people," Lexa admits with a gentle sigh, "but I, too, would feel safer knowing that I might prevent any grievous offenses against her people through yours. The Boat People are a part of the Coalition, and whatever word they might speak of you to other clans will influence their opinions of your people; it is- _important_ ," Lexa struggles, only for a moment, in conveying the weight of this message, "that they speak of you kindly, Clarke."

Clarke nods, for she requires no further elaboration; she has learned enough of the Coalition to understand the truth in this, and Lexa is abruptly grateful, once more, for Clarke's dawning interest in the subject in recent weeks.

"Thank you," Clarke swallows thickly. "Really, Lexa – just, _thank you_ ," she insists. "My people are still recovering. Especially after today. They could use some good news," she sighs heavily, forehead dropping to Lexa's shoulder.

Lexa may only trail her fingers along Clarke's spine in comfort as she holds the Skai Prisa's frame close against her own, so that she might feel Clarke's blaring heat and the anxious tremor of her shoulders against the Commander's own.

Lexa only hums a soft, incoherent reply into Clarke's hairline, lips securely folded across the Skai Prisa's forehead.

"They're probably so scared," Clarke swallows again. "My people in Luna's village," she explains quietly, voice trembling, though Lexa has no need for it; she already knows Clarke's meaning.

"You will see them home," Lexa promises gently. "But, for tonight, we must rest, Clarke. Our journey to Luna's village will require two days of travel, at least, and in the morning you must prepare whoever will accompany you."

"I was thinking of Bellamy," Clarke tells her, as Lexa slowly guides her back into the confines of her tent. "And probably Kane," Clarke continues, though she speaks distractedly, for she touches her fingers across Lexa's armor as the Commander moves to unfasten it.

Clarke does not help her remove it – and Lexa is not honestly certain that the Skai Prisa would even know how, should she try – but it is the way Clarke's fingers stroke which catches the breath in Lexa's chest. For the Skai Prisa's eyes are deep, and devoted, and reverent, even amongst the worry she now harbors for her people, and her fingers move delicately across the metal and leather of each piece as Lexa removes it.

"Maybe Octavia. She's… sort of a terror when she has nothing to do, and I'm not sure that I trust her to be left alone," Clarke smiles wryly.

"She is tenacious," Lexa concurs. "She will be a good warrior, if only she might learn patience. And perhaps a bit more _sense_ ," she murmurs beneath her breath as a scowl lines her mouth.

Clarke chuckles wearily and moves to the bed, curling upon it as she watches Lexa strip away the last of her armor before shifting to join her.

"Thank you," Clarke whispers again, breathing the words into Lexa's shoulder once the Commander has eased Clarke's cheek over her own heart. "It means a lot to me that you're willing to come, Lexa."

Lexa tucks her mouth tenderly across the top of blonde curls, thinking only that there is very little she finds herself unwilling to do for Clarke, and certainly not something so miniscule as this, which will, too, bring Lexa comfort.

Still, Lexa only smiles something small and affectionate into the Skai Prisa's hair and murmurs, "Rest now, Clarke. We have suffered a long day, and will see several more to follow. _Rest_ ," she insists, tugging softly at the ends of Clarke's blonde locks until the Skai Prisa smiles exhaustedly into her chest.

"Goodnight, Lexa," Clarke whispers, lips pressing a soft kiss over the Commander's heart.

Lexa's breath staggers, for this intimacy with Clarke is all that she might need to require a good night, indeed, and she is consumed by her affections for Clarke, in this moment – and every affection she feels for the Skai Prisa which has also been returned.

"Rest well, Clarke of the Sky People," Lexa tenders softly, then swallows, for she had spoken truth to Clarke, only moments before; they have shared a very long day together, and now it must be time to end it – and there is no place better Lexa may think to do so than here, with Clarke in her arms and the Skai Prisa's cheek so absently and tenderly nuzzling across her chest. "May peace find you in sleep."


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so it's short - but better than nothing, right? If you're still reading, I'm sorry, guys. I swear that when I told you updates would be slow for a month, I didn't actually think they would be nonexistent for a month. I'm excited about where this is headed, though, so just be patient with me while I knock out a few transition chapters, and then we'll get to the good stuff.

Clarke attempts to rise with the dawning sun, but Lexa does not allow it.

The Commander understands the Skai Prisa's eagerness to reach her people, but they have slept so very little, still, and Lexa knows that decent sleep will escape them for the duration of their travels. Clarke requires rest, and Lexa, too, may still feel the exhaustion which festers deep within her bones and tickles beneath the lids of her eyes. It has only mildly been sated.

Lexa is insistent, curling her fingers around Clarke's wrist as she shifts to stand, pulling against the Skai Prisa until she has fallen, once more, into the bed at Lexa's side with only a hoarse, sleepy chuckle which plucks chords of familiar want in the depths of Lexa's lower stomach. Amusement lights each of the bright, varying shades of Clarke's eyes, and Lexa may only quirk her lips upward in reply – for she is charmed by Clarke, always, but here, with streaks of sunlight plaguing through the small slats in Clarke's tent, the Skai Prisa is nothing less than flawless, to Lexa's eye.

She tugs again against Clarke's wrist, for now it is not only sleep for which Lexa wishes, but also the tremor of her muscles which follows each brush of Clarke's skin upon the Commander's own flesh. If Lexa is meant to deny herself that luxury, she cares not, in this moment – for, soon, they will depart for Luna's village and will be wrought with more political negotiations, and Lexa is not prepared.

Lexa, instead, is eager only for more of this sleepy morning with Clarke. It is only temporary – Lexa knows this – for even without Luna's unexpected message, the Coalition still, too, must be dealt with, but without the threat of the Mountain Men casting shadows over their recent victory, it is simple, for only this short time, to be grateful for this small peace; it is simple to be grateful for only this little time with Clarke, in the quiet of the Skai Prisa's tent, and Lexa finds that she is unwilling to sacrifice it so swiftly.

Lexa breathes a shaky sigh of relief as Clarke follows Lexa's unspoken instruction, though Lexa believes that it is more for Lexa's own comfort than for any rest Clarke might now achieve. The Skai Prisa furls her arms around Lexa's waist tenderly, cheek nuzzling softly against Lexa's stomach with a soft, weary sigh, and it is all that Lexa may think to do to merely curl her fingers through Clarke's blonde curls.

"She's not cruel," Clarke murmurs after a moment, words seeping warmth into Lexa's hip which makes her tremble, before shifting her chin to rest against it as her eyes search Lexa's out above her. "Luna," Clarke elaborates on a whisper. "She's your friend," she licks her lips thoughtfully, treasured orbs of blue pleading hopefully at Lexa for confirmation. "She's- She'll have treated them well, right? My people?"

Lexa swallows, for she does not know. Clarke's people are frightened, and Lexa has more than once borne witness to the Sky People's capacity for destruction when desperate. They are not from Earth, no, but they are now _of_ Earth, and they have proven to be resourceful; they are capable of being dangerous – Clarke has proven that – but they are not all so kind as Clarke, nor as careful.

Finn, too, had been desperate.

Lexa cannot say what has become of Clarke's people, for she knows not the circumstance surrounding their capture. It is entirely possible that Luna and her people only found them in the wake of their crash from the Sky, but it, too, is possible that Clarke's people had read Luna's people as a threat and sought to eliminate it on first contact.

If the latter is the case, Clarke is fortunate to have received such a message at all; Clarke would be fortunate, in such a scenario, not to have received notice of their execution.

"Luna is reasonable," Lexa offers staidly, for she will not lie, but it is senseless for Clarke to worry herself over this when it may not be changed, regardless.

Clarke sighs gently, but nods, face falling once more into Lexa's stomach, where Lexa may feel the weight of her, solid and steady and so pleasantly warm, through the cloth of her shirt.

Lexa swallows once more, though now it is not wrought with weariness, but with pure affection and intimate awe.

The Skai Prisa worries, and the events of the night before still play rapidly amongst the shadows of both Lexa's mind and Clarke's, but it is further, now, with those few hours of sleep to curb the devastation and pain, if only some. Lexa may breathe easier in the morning, may shove aside the grief which had haunted her so powerfully in the evening before; Lexa may remember better, now, the purpose for their actions, and the necessity of them. She aches – in her heart, and in her spirit – for the lives she has taken and for the sadness of such necessity, but it is easier, now, with the relief of some exhaustion, to cope with such things.

Now, it is only Clarke, and only Lexa, and the emotion traded between them the night before is, too, blended with a warm, sleepy feeling of contentment. For how could Lexa fail to feel content when waking in Clarke's arms? When the Skai Prisa is hugged around her hips and burying her cheek into the flesh of Lexa's abs for reassurance and comfort, in a solitary, quiet moment prior to their journey east?

Still, this moment is – and may only _be_ – short-lived.

For Clarke may find sleep no longer, having sated the most desperate and crippling edges of her own weariness, and the Skai Prisa, now, may focus only on her people, and on how she might next serve them.

This is something that the Commander may easily understand, and so she makes no attempt to delay Clarke a second time when, only a short time later, Clarke shifts upward in effort to move. The Skai Prisa slithers up the length of Lexa's frame, and Lexa's breath may only still abruptly as Clarke's fingers cradle beneath her ear. She sighs softly into the line of Lexa's hair, lips pressing a small, fond kiss across Lexa's temple before stirring from the bed, once more.

* * *

" _Heda_ ," Malloch bows his head respectfully.

Lexa has fallen against her throne, for she has notified all necessary parties of their coming trek, and now she must only wait until her small band of warriors have prepared for it.

Still, Malloch has found her, and upon spying him, Lexa may understand instantly the anxiety which festers at the wrinkle of his brow.

Lexa has not yet ordered his permanent station at Clarke's side. It is against Trigedakru law to part from Lexa's land without the _Heda's_ command or permission, and so Malloch may not follow Clarke to the shores of Luna's people without first appearing at her behest to ask for it.

In this moment, Malloch is worried for Clarke, and for his ability to keep her safe.

"Speak," Lexa instructs, fingers tapping idly along the arms of her throne.

"I request a favor, _Heda_ ," Malloch tells her. "It is not my right," he confesses solemnly, "but it is my wish. I request placement as the Skai Prisa's guard."

Lexa arches her head only minutely, eyeing him carefully. Malloch has performed well as Clarke's guard, despite that it had not been sanctioned; this is not the first occasion during which Lexa has pondered his permanent assignment to Clarke. Still, the Commander is curious – for his guard had only initiated in the aftermath of Mount Weather, and surely Malloch may not still feel so burdened by the delay his injury had caused in bringing Abby to Clarke's terrifyingly injured side.

"If that is your wish," Lexa says thoughtfully, "then I must ask why. The Skai Prisa is not your charge. You owe her nothing."

She must be certain. Malloch is a strong warrior, and he would do well in such a capacity, but his eagerness to remain as her protector is curious – for Clarke has done much for both her people and Lexa's, but it is true that Malloch owes nothing to Clarke, personally. Why, then, must he feel it is his responsibility to keep her safe?

Malloch frowns, dark, heavy eyebrows dipping inward in speculation.

" _Heda_ ," he begins slowly, "the Skai Prisa has offered much to our people, and much to her own. She is a leader, and as such has _earned_ protection, has she not?"

"True," Lexa nods. "However, her own people, too, may protect her. Or another of my warriors may be better suited for the task," she raises her brow.

Malloch rustles beneath the insult, and Lexa may only hide her amused smile in answer. She has many warriors capable of protecting Clarke, but few suited _better_ than the one before her; still, if it is truth for which she wishes, Malloch will only grant it in fear that his request will not be granted. Lexa will see to it that truth is all that she finds, here, for she will not endanger Clarke's safety through failure to assess her own people placed to guard her.

"Perhaps," Malloch growls. "But none with the same motivation as I. The Skai Prisa has shown me kindness, _Heda_. She has made it simpler to understand the ways of her people, and in turn has sought to learn from me the ways of ours. She is a leader to be respected," he gruffs quietly, "but also one to be cared for."

It is through Malloch that Clarke has begun learning the language of her people, Lexa realizes then. It is through Malloch's tutelage that Clarke has so speedily absorbed the knowledge of the Trigedakru in recent weeks.

Abruptly, Lexa is grateful for him; she is grateful for Clarke's awareness and her eagerness to learn, but she, too, is pleased that Malloch has provided her such honest means of doing so. Malloch has proven himself loyal to the Skai Prisa, and whatever his reasons, Lexa may respect that – for Clarke has earned loyalty, and she has earned the right to a guard devoted so earnestly to her protection.

"Very well," Lexa nods her assent. "I will grant your request. But do not mistake this as kindness, _gona_ ," she cautions. "The Skai Prisa is important to us all. You are a talented warrior, and one who I will trust with this task, but should any harm befall her, it will be you who will suffer for it."

Malloch nods his solemn understanding, and Lexa may only nod and flick her fingers in dismissal.

"We depart shortly. Be sure that the Skai Prisa and her people are prepared to leave," she tells him on his departure.

"Yes, _Heda_ ," Malloch nods once more. He hesitates at the flaps of her tent, but does not face Lexa as he straightens his spine and reluctantly grates out a short, "Thank you," before hastily surging through.

Lexa may not suppress the small chuckle which bubbles from her chest, for her people are not acclimated to words of thanks – only physical kindnesses which may express such gratitude. Lexa has borne witness, unknowingly, to Malloch's influence over Clarke, but these small words from Malloch have, too, proven Clarke's influence over _him_.

The Commander wonders if, perhaps, she should feel threatened by her people's loyalty to Clarke, and the Skai Prisa's invisible, unintentional rule over them. Lexa is uncertain, but she cannot bring herself to worry for it.

Clarke is a good leader, and fair; she is strong, and as kind as Malloch has claimed her to be. She would not take Lexa's people from the Commander even if she were capable, but even if she so chose – and even if she might succeed – Lexa is confident that Clarke would do well by them. She is devoted to them, as they are to her; her own people must come first, for Lexa does not care for them in the same manner as her own, and no other will protect the rights of Clarke's people if Clarke does not do so herself. Still, Lexa believes that her people are right to have placed their trust in the Skai Prisa, for she will not forsake it.


End file.
